


The Tides of War

by Minubell



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Humor, Fall of Númenor, Gen, Númenor, Second Age
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29503299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minubell/pseuds/Minubell
Summary: Ar-Pharazon expects an army. He expects a fight, the sort of battle to be immortalized in tapestries and stonework for all time. A grand affair to prove the might of Numenor and show their triumph where all others have failed.What he doesnotexpect, is for the so-called Lord of the World to emerge from his towers of stone and iron, unarmored and armed with only a smile. “My armies have fled,” He informs them all plainly. “It seems I have no choice but to surrender myself into your mercy, Ar-Pharazon the Golden.”…Huh?—A retelling of Mairon’s time in Numenor, in which he realized that:1) Taking over the world requires a lot of paperwork, actually2) If someone else is in charge, they have to do it.Current update schedule:NOTICE (2/28/2021): I hurt my hand a little from writing too much (haha) so there's going to be a little delay in chapters since the brace makes me type slower.Next update: 3/11/2021
Comments: 62
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This will be my first contribution to the Silmarillion fandom! 
> 
> I originally started this as some extra fluff for my Lord of the Rings dnd campaign for my players, but then I realized I just missed writing. I'll be adding more tags and adjust warnings as I write more, so be sure to check those as each new chapter is posted.
> 
> I'll try to update as frequently as I can, which will probably be very quickly early on, and slower as the plot gets more intense. I do not have a beta-reader so if you notice any mistakes, just let me know! I appreciate all comments and will respond to them when I can.

_The world used to be so grand._

There is a strange nostalgia that overcomes him as that thought slips into his head. Here, alone in this dimly lit room, surrounded by bookshelves upon bookshelves stacked to the brim with scrolls of brittle parchment, Mairon finds his gaze on the page before him slipping. 

Or, perhaps more accurately, he is the one who is slipping. 

He sucks in a breath and puts the feathered quill pen in his hand back to the parchment, finishing out the last few sentences carefully before shifting it to the side to let the fresh ink dry. As his pen dips into the inkwell, his other hand is already reaching for a new paper to lay before him. His eyes scan over the words- _a proposed treaty_ -before he sets the pen down anew, scratching out entire sections of the wording with extreme prejudice and writing notes in the margins. 

Treaty is not exactly the correct word here. Officially, yes, the document lying before him is a proposal for an alliance between his ever-expanding kingdom and some small mannish settlement. He pauses here briefly, his free hand unfurling a map to confirm the settlement is in the correct place before he continues marking down corrections. 

Unofficially, both he and the author of this treaty are aware that Mairon’s patience is as thin as his armies grand. He is willing to negotiate, naturally, but in the event discussions draw out he is equally as likely to simply burn the kingdom off the map with a company of orcs. The treaty is a farce. The terms are his and his alone. Anything beyond that is merely an extension of his goodwill, and a way to attempt to avoid undue casualties to the might of his army.

 _Yes, the world used to be so grand_. 

Mairon can feel his thoughts drifting and he allows them to wander, even as his pen scratches corrections into the treaty. 

_He remembers staring down at the tiny, scaly, ugly creature at his feet for the first time that Melkor was so proud of. ”Dragons,” he had called them when he produced them with a flourish. Mairon had fixed him with a look that he had barked out in laughter at._

_”Yavanna made lizards already,” Mairon had informed him dryly in response, and Melkor’s delight quickly evaporated with a huff of annoyance. He had stomped around and raged for years after, trying to explain how they were different. ”So they are lizards but bigger,” Mairon had replied when Glaurung grew to such a size that it towered over even the largest of his wolves. ”Why do they need to breathe fire? We have Balrogs,” he had insisted with a pointed look towards the charred ends of Melkor’s sleeves. Melkor had pouted at that, but several hundred years later when Ancalagon the Black hatched from his egg, Mairon had looked at the wings upon his back, considered it, and then nodded in approval._

His hand sets the edited treaty to the side, at the same time drawing up a fresh parchment to create a new, fresh copy of the document to return to the kingdom. He’ll keep the edited copy as a record for himself to avoid pasting parchment. 

_He recalls staring across the forge at Celebrimbor, watching him work. The sound of the hammer falling upon gold and silver was relaxing enough to dull him enough until his eyes slipped closed, head resting upon one arm resting carefully, the elbow of which was balanced on the corner of a small, stone table._

_“Sleeping, Annatar?” Celebrimbor had asked quietly after a few minutes, his voice barely a whisper above the noises of the forge. Ever ignorant to the fact that Mairon could do no such thing._

_“No,” Mairon replied, finding humor in the fact Celebrimbor took such care to keep his words quiet when his arms continued to mold the ore into fine jewelries with the rhythmic, loud clang of the hammer. As if a few quietly spoken words would somehow rouse him from sleep where the crash of metal on metal failed. He did not open his eyes though. “Merely listening.”_

Things feel so mundane. Dull and lackluster, and with each scratch of his pen Mairon feels himself digging a rut into the ground, like the wheels of a wagon drawn across the same path over and over. A familiar path that each day he feels drawn deeper into, over and over and over again. 

Mairon is not even certain what he is doing anymore. _World domination_ , he reminds himself blandly, feels himself falling back into the wagon rut all over again. Why? _Because it needs to be fixed._ And the paperwork? _Well…_ He stares down at it, hand still moving across the page even as he tries to think of a proper justification. 

“MASTER!” 

There are two bangs in rapid succession. The first, when Angmar charges into the room without any trace of grace, dignity or composure befitting his station, throwing the door open so fast that it cracks against the adjacent wall. The second, when Mairon casts Angmar back into the hallway so quickly that his back smashes against the far wall. Mairon pins him there with a deft bit of magic, several inches off the ground, the stone of the far wall groaning under the onslaught. A few chunks of rock already broke free with the initial crash, and rain to the ground in a cloud of dust. 

Mairon himself has not moved from where he is seated. His eyes remain glued to the parchment in front of him, staring at the words he carefully wrote out with a steady hand which devolve into a massive, irregular line of ink which was drawn across the length of the page in his surprise. There’s a small hole, even, where the tip of his quill caught on the parchment and dragged the page until it tore. 

_What a waste_ he thinks, quashing the fury inside of him quickly. He’ll have to redo the entire page from the top. The thought tempts him to set the parchment and Angmar both ablaze, but unfortunately they’re both more useful to him whole. The paper as a reference and Angmar…as a doorstop, perhaps. 

The idea crosses his mind that perhaps he should just delegate the entire stack to Angmar as punishment, but he banishes the thought just as quickly as it arises. Angmar’s handwriting is, simply put, atrocious. Having him do anything involving paperwork only doubles the work since he’ll eventually have to either settle for rewriting the notes himself, or delegate it further with someone with a tolerance for paperwork. 

A quiet, pained cough from behind him alerts him to the fact he still has Angmar pinned against the wall outside. Ah, right. Mairon’s lips quirk into the barest hint of a frown before he composes himself and sweeps out of his chair. His hand briefly brushes on the ornately carved metal, dragging across the cool surface as he prowls across the room and out into the hallway. 

“Angmar,” He calls out sweetly, and a cruel satisfaction rises inside him when the once-king shifts and averts his gaze away. Oh good, he is aware he’s done something wrong. Mairon lets him squirm there in silence a moment longer before he continues, asking, “Are you a child?” 

“No...?” 

“Truly? You sound uncertain." 

“No, master, I am not a child.” Angmar’s words seem somewhat strained by the pressure on his chest and, like the very good lord that he is, Mairon relaxes his hold just a little. Not enough to drop him, of course, because if he let him go now he would scuttle away and no lesson would be learnt. 

“Really?” Mairon asks, head inclining slightly to one side. “Are you an orc, then? A troll, perhaps?” 

“No, master." 

“Curious,” Mairon says, pretending to fuss over these answers, as if he cannot quite make sense of them. “Curious indeed, because while you certainly do not look like a child, nor an orc or troll, you find it perfectly reasonable to run about my halls, shouting and stomping about like one. So I ask again-are you _certain?_ ” 

“My apologies, master." 

Mairon considers him for a few moments before he finally relents and releases his hold on Angmar, letting him drop to his feet. He stumbles briefly before he catches himself, though he falls to his knees anyway in a low bow. Mairon regards him for a moment before he sighs. He has no real interest in tormenting his servants like this. He did not induct them into his service through use of fear, and- _influence of the ring or not_ -he would not keep them loyal through excessive force. 

Still, the mess with the parchment has left him frustrated and his nerves frazzled, especially because he knows this entire ordeal was likely over something trivial, like a request for a new horse or a new sword, or requests to learn more about the magics and history of the world. He does not even need to hear Angmar say it. Had it been important, the _moment_ he was apprehended he would have apologized and explained what was so urgent instead of growing silent and guilty in that silence. He stares down at Angmar before turning away with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

“Clear your mess,” Mairon orders, pointing towards the pile of rubble at the ground, then at the cracked wall. He does not wait for Angmar to respond, instead stalking back inside his workroom and drawing the door shut, locking himself back in the dark with only the blissful silence as company. 

And the paperwork. 

_Ah._

_…._

A few moments pass before the scratching of his quill resumes. 

_\-----_

“I saw Angmar in the hall, my Lord.” 

Mairon releases a sigh, as it seems he is destined to be ever interrupted, and turns to face Khamul the flattest expression he can muster. 

“Yes, he does live here.” 

The laugh in turn does little to smooth over Mairon’s nerves and he stares at Khamul until the man manages to reign himself in and wave off the last few chuckles with a hand. 

"Yes, I suppose he does. He-more so than the others-lives in your shadow and follows at your heels like a dog.” 

“Dogs are useful,” Mairon replies, his tone as flat as his expression and when the laugh returns he turns back towards his work. Why did he put up with the likes of Men again? It almost makes him want to mourn what might have been. Elves would have been much less trouble, certainly. Except his mind drifts to Feanor and his ilk and his nose scrunches up slightly. _That_ would be monstrous, and the idea of having to deal with servants like that for all of eternity would be probably be enough to consider scrapping the entire ring project just to be rid of them. 

“Oh yes,” he can hear Khamul continue even as he turns his attention back to the papers in front of him. He shuffles through them for a moment- _taxes, taxes, battle report, notice of surrender, taxes, trade agreement-_ he pulls that one out of the stack and places it on top- _taxes, taxes_. Nothing too urgent, fortunately. 

Who thought that world domination would be so bland? 

_Not Melkor,_ a treasonous part of his brain chimes in, because even during the better times Mairon was STILL stuck doing reports. 

“…And wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Wouldn’t you agree…” Mairon repeats, his voice trailing off in warning as his eyes glance up at Khamul once again, fixing him with a withering gaze. _Careful,_ that look warns, _Do not be so familiar with me_. But his tone is mostly because he hasn’t been paying attention to whatever it was Khamul was saying in the first place, and not because he was actually offended in any real capacity. 

“Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?” Khamul acquiesces with a grin and a curtsey, and as much as Mairon wants to snap at him for being cheeky the banter leaves him feeling oddly wistful. 

“Make yourself useful,” Mairon says instead of reprimanding him or answering whatever question he had asked in the first place, and pushes a stack of papers towards him. Khamul has far better handwriting than Angmar. 

“Of course, my lord,” Khamul replies as he sweeps the the papers off of his desk and finds a seat nearby at a smaller, plainer desk. There are several such desks in the room, though most have spent their time gathering dust as few of the Nine have the patience or steady hand required for paperwork. _Scholars,_ Mairon mourns, not for the first time. _I should have selected scholars. What use are once-kings?_. 

Hindsight, hindsight. 

One argues he still could select scholars. On the next conquest take care to spare the libraries and the archives, to snatch up a number of Men from within to inflict wretched paperwork upon them instead. More vocal members of the Nazgul have likened the grueling hours of writing to torture in the past, so he could very well just fill the dungeons with a few dozen Men and have _them_ do the work. 

The scratching of his quill on the parchment slows for just a moment. 

Hm. Delegate, delegate. 

No, Mairon eventually decides as his quill resumes its scraping at a regular pace, because the paperwork would still find its way back into his hands one way or another. If not completing it himself, ensuring that it was correct. Furthermore, putting it in the responsibility of prisoners of war meant they would require screenings and teachings until they could replicate his words well enough, and an hour of his time is worth at least twenty in the time of Men. 

Perhaps, if he was going for world _destruction_ he could toss the piles of parchment to the winds and simply set the world ablaze until all of Arda was smoldering ash beneath his feet. But, alas, this was a much more cautious game he was playing and it required subtly, grace and, unfortunately, paperwork. 

His mind grows silent as he resumes the tedious, familiar work. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should clarify a personal headcanon: The Nazgul ALSO lost their forms and became spooky riders during the fall of Numenor (Because, frankly, imagine Mairon trying to convince Ar-Pharazon about the secrets to immortality while these nine ex-kings screech in the background). 
> 
> So physically they will appear as humans to other humans for this fic. It isn't just Mairon vision.

_Scratch, scratch_ goes his quill as he scrapes it across the parchment. The noise of his own writings is accompanied by Khamul’s as he sits nearby, having settled into his own work. 

…

…

…It is an easy thing to lose track of time. 

His workroom, as ever, is dimly lit with a sparse spattering of torches across the limited area of the walls that are not lined with bookshelves. The sections that do contain shelves- _, that is, most of it_ -are filled to the brim with scrolls very carefully organized by region, and then further by type. The bookshelves span the entire height of the room, rising up to the point where a ladder leans against one of the shelves in the event someone else requires access to the pages closer to the top.

Mairon himself, of course, can simply take the shape of another creature capable of flight to reach the topmost scrolls. 

He rarely needs to, regardless. Mairon would never create an ineffective system, so thus more volatile areas of the world that may require their records to be checked are kept closest to the bottom, while former, conquered or peaceful territories are moved to the top and out of the way. Periodically he takes care to re-organize, allotting more space as it is needed or downsizing as required.

_Scratch, scratch._

Eventually, he’ll need to consider either expanding the top of the roof to allow for more space, or moving some of the more outdated scrolls into another room.

Here in this space, surrounded by paper, ink and stone, the days blend together. It is not as though he is not aware of the passage of time. His existence predates the first sunrise so he hardly is reliant on it. No, it is more the repetition of it all that wears in on him. Unlike the Nine, who do well in battle and thus are frequently called to it or still require things like sustenance and rest, he has little to draw him away from his workroom. 

Nearby, Khamul shuffles his papers quietly.

“I have finished this stack, my lord,” Khamul declares softly from nearby, and Mairon spares him a glance as his servant rises from the desk. Several hours already passed, and Khamul yawns as he sorts through the scrolls he has completed, filing them away in the appropriate locations and leaving the ones for Mairon himself to review on the desk. _It is night_ , Mairon knows, even without Khamul’s obvious fatigue or a window to give him access to the skies above. “Do you need me for anything else?” He asks, after a few minutes has passed and his space is sufficiently clean.

Fortunately, all of the Nine are aware of Mairon’s hatred for a mess and most of them take care to clean up after themselves. “You may rest,” Mairon responds with a dismissive wave of his hand, while his eyes drift to the ever present work before him. Oh, it would be easy to request Khamul stay. To give him another portion of the work, which is then less in turn that he has to worry about. But while the need for sleep in the Nine has waned with time with their possession of the Rings of Power, they still require it.

Eventually, perhaps, they will not require sleep at all. The Rings have already extended their lives, preserved their bodies, kept them from aging. He admittedly did not notice at first, until he had looked at Angmar one day alongside one of the Men from the South that served in his army and came to the startling realization that Angmar had not changed at all after a hundred years in his service, while the nameless man had been born later, and eventually perished earlier. 

So, death was staved off and sleep waned for the Nine. They still eat and drink, but is that necessary or simply an enjoyment? He’ll need to ask one of them. 

The door opens with a quiet creak, then shuts with a soft thump, signifying Khamul has left. Mairon dips his quill into the inkwell again, and sets back to work uninterrupted.

_Scratch, scratch._

….

To be more accurate, Mairon _knows time_ passes, but finds himself lost in his work anyway.

He can recall some years ago when there was a miscommunication in the lower ranks, resulting in a backlog that had papers stacked precariously high on every desk in the room. Naturally, he had set to work immediately, locking himself in his workroom with the paperwork. It had still taken him some months to correct and properly sort the erroneous paperwork, and the entire affair haunted more today than any military embarrassment he had faced in the past.

 _”Angmar is looking for you, my lord,” Khamul had told him, lips curled into a grin as he finally emerged from his workroom, much to his own confusion._

_”Truly?” Mairon had asked, immediately dreading the worst. “Is there another backlog?”_

_”No such thing, my lord,” Khamul reassured him quickly. “After the first month of your absence, he became convinced that you were not in your workroom at all. Something about being kidnapped by elves. I have not seen him since.”_

_“…You had no part in his increased paranoia about my well being, I am sure?”_

_”Ah, well, it has been blissfully quiet around here, has it not?”_

Mairon had taken care, after that, to try to take breaks as frequently as he could. Once a week, usually, he made it a point to emerge from his workroom for at least a few minutes so Angmar would not tear a war path across the West again. Additionally, he made it a point to keep his door unlocked, which as an added bonus allowed Khamul to drift in and out and sometimes assist him in his toils. 

_How long has he been in here this time?_

It is a difference he has had to adjust to, being surrounded by the likes of Men.

In the elder days, he had been surrounded by others like him. At first, he found a student of Aule, alongside the other Maiar who served him. Those days did not last long, however, before he found himself drawn towards Melkor’s vicious spiral, trading his service to one Vala for another. There was little difference there in the company that he kept, however. If he had locked himself in his rooms for months on end, he doubted Melkor would have even noticed. 

Of course, Melkor would have also simply kicked the door in the instant he created something new that he wanted to show off, with little regard for the fact that locks exist for a reason.

Regardless, first it was Aule and his Maiar. 

Then, Melkor and his Balrogs. 

Then he was standing on his own, staring out at the charred remains of the world, unable to describe the feelings lodged in his throat as the world crumbled around him. Even now when he closes his eyes he can see the the expanse of marred land before him, smell the ash that clings to his skin. Waves crash over the crumbling ruins of an entire land mass soon to be lost, broken beneath the might of the Host of West and the massive body of Ancalagon the Black. The remnants of the great armies of Angband fled Eastward, leaving him alone to watch the last few moments of Beleriand before it slips into the sea. Leaving him alone to watch Melkor carted back to Valinor in chains, and only able to preserve the image in his memory rather than assist.

Leaving him alone...Five hundred years had never felt longer.

The elves had been a welcome reprieve.

_”The **Rings** , Celebrimbor. Where have you hidden them?”_

While it lasted, anyway.

_**”S…Sauron.”** _

The smell of something burning reaches his nose, and Mairon snaps out of his spiraling thoughts to stare at the once-vibrant feathered quill in his hands. The metallic body of the pen has changed from gold to a brilliant orange color, and the ends of the formerly red plume have blackened and begun to curl in on itself. Only a touch of color is still left in the feather, primarily closest to the top, which is farthest away from his hand. The wisps of feather closest to the bottom have begun to break away in a dance of red-hot embers, which float through the air until they wink out and die.

Mairon stares at the quill for a moment longer before he jerks backwards in realization and out of his chair. Both hands come to grasp at the smoldering quill pen, covering it quickly to keep any of the loose embers from escaping, which he holds as far away from the desk as possible. His breath catches in his throat as he glances at the parchment he had been writing on- _edge curling, slightly blackened but not ablaze_ -then at the surrounding shelves of hundreds of thousands of scrolls. 

_Flammable_ scrolls, housed in wooden bookshelves which are also flammable. Centuries of important documents before him, all of which could disappear in an instant in the maw of a raging inferno, with no way to restore them. 

He flees. 

He runs from the room like the Host of the West is upon his heels, the door left ajar and forgotten behind him. He can’t risk being so close to his workroom now if he can’t control himself. His hands at his sides curl into fists, his left one closing around the scorched remnants of the quill and crushing it until it cracks audibly within his grip. Then, for good measure, clenches his fist just a bit further, until he can hear another two snaps from within the confines of his hand. 

His mind races but the thoughts pass too quickly for him to grasp at any particular one and hold it for more than a second. Less than a second, either.

He swears he can hear Melkor laughing at his heels. 

Some moments later he finds himself greeted with a rush of cold air across his face. With no clear destination in mind except _away_ his feet have led him to a large, semi-circular balcony, where he slows. The wind this high is strong and batters at him, the night air cold, but both are refreshing enough that he seeks out the edge, placing both hands upon the barrier before him. One, flat and open, braces himself against the cold stone. The other, still curled in a fist around the quill, merely resting there. 

He breathes deeply for a few moments, eyes closed, forcing his thoughts to settle. He’s fine. Physically, he is still here, on Arda, in Mordor. The only casualty of his momentary lapse in judgement is an easily replaceable quill. 

That was all it was, after all. A lapse in concentration, and an anomaly. Too long spent toiling over paperwork come back to haunt him. Yes, that’s right. He only needed a few moments away from it, a moment to himself. 

“...Master?” 

Mairon sucks in a sharp breath, then releases it in a long sigh, straightening his back before he turns to glance back at where Angmar hovers in the doorway behind him. His nervousness is palpable in the air, but it feels different than how he felt earlier in the day. He isn’t averting his gaze or turning away, and while there’s an unspoken question in his voice he lacks that terrified look in his eyes.

Mairon’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he studies him wordlessly for a few seconds, and he almost wants to laugh when he realizes that rather than being scared _of_ him, Angmar seems to be scared _for_ him. 

Is that a trait of Men? To gaze upon something splendid and mighty and _strong_ and mentally degrade it down to their level? To think the entire world to be as fragile as they are? It truly does make him want to laugh, to laugh at Angmar and his foolishness, and then to show Angmar just how far _pity_ would get him. 

Yes, the elves had thought him one of them but that was a deliberate ploy on his part. Annatar, and all the weaknesses he supposedly had, were false. He allowed them to think of him as one of them, to get close, to ensnare them. He _never_ let the Nazgul think of him as anything except their lord and master, and they all were aware that he was no mortal man. 

He schools his thoughts and expression at the same time, reigning both back in.

“Angmar, come here,” Mairon orders, beckoning him closer. The Nazgul does not hesitate to step out onto the balcony to join him, and when he is standing only a few feet before him does Mairon holds out his closed fist. Angmar quickly holds out his hands out in front of him, and catches the broken quill dropped into his grip easily enough. “Dispose of it, for me,” Mairon says, dismissing him with a wave and turning back towards the skyline.

Angmar moves behind him, but instead of back into the fortress he steps up to the edge of the balcony as well. Mairon turns to look at him indignantly- _Had he not just given him an order?_ -and opens his mouth to scold him in turn for not listening, when Angmar suddenly draws his hand back and hurls the quill over the side of the balcony. It spirals in the air for a few moments before it falls downwards in an arc, quickly vanishing out of sight as it careens towards the ground below. 

Mairon blinks slowly as Angmar turns towards him, beaming. 

“Done, master!”

“…So it is,” Mairon replies reluctantly, gazing over the side of the balcony, as if he could still catch slight of the quill hundreds of feet below them, battered upon the rocks. "So it is."

A silence falls between them, but Angmar only lets it rest for a moment before he throttles the peacefulness with four words. 

“Are you alright, master?” 

“What would be wrong with me?” Mairon replies in turn, and Angmar leans against the balcony as well, but while Mairon stares out into the mountainous wall and the sky beyond, Angmar’s eyes remained locked on him and that expression of _pity and concern_ does not ease from his features. 

“You could have an injury-“

“I am not bleeding.”

“Maybe you are ill-“

“Ah, but I cannot get sick.”

“Perhaps it isn’t a physical illness.”

“I assure you, spiritually, I am well,” Mairon responds, lifting his left hand to show the plain, golden band of jewelry wrapped around his fourth finger. _The ring finger,_ it is called, and Mairon had delighted enough in the irony to place it there when he donned it for the first time. Angmar shifts in turn and falls quiet, his left hand moving to carefully turn with the band around his own right ring finger.

The curious part of Mairon’s mind wonders what would happen if Angmar attempted to remove it. Would he even be able to? 

“As you say,” Angmar eventually relents, sounding very much like he does not want to.

“Yes,” Mairon agrees pointedly. “As I say.” The silence falls back between them again as Angmar turns and-

“Maybe you are tired.”

 _“Angmar_ ,” Mairon snaps, turning to look at him pointedly. “Are you bored? Do you require entertainment? There is a mountain of paperwork in my workroom if you need something to occupy your mind and hand.” It is a threat that he has no intentions of actually following through on, since it would only make more work for him, but Angmar is clearly unaware of the hollowness of the threat and balks at the idea. 

“Ah, no,” Angmar responds quickly, backing off quickly and stepping away from the edge of the balcony. He stumbles over his words for an excuse, but none of them are coherent and Mairon only lets him carry on for a few moments before Mairon sighs and relents, providing a mercy Angmar does not deserve. 

“You can stay. Just… do be quiet.” And with that he turns, gazing out towards the moon as it rises in the distance, peaking just over the mountains that frame Mordor. Angmar hovers behind him for a moment before stepping forward again, back to the edge and leaning against the barrier as well. Mairon, content to ignore him, closes his eyes and tips his head downwards, away from the light of the moon and breathes slowly. 

There is still work to be done. He knows this. Deadlines loom in the back of his mind.

But perhaps it can wait, if only for a few moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I'm so honored, I got fanart!   
> Go check out this amazing [gif](https://ttrtru.tumblr.com/post/643752811305304064/done-master-so-it-is-fan-art-from-a-scene)  
> that [ttrtru](https://ttrtru.tumblr.com/)  
> made of Angmar carrying out his Master's orders a bit too literally!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far we're at a one a day chapter update. We'll see how long I can keep that up for!

“Have you been out here all night, my lord?” 

Mairon opens his eyes, blinking for a few moments as his vision swims and then clears. He’d left them closed a bit longer than he anticipated, and the harsher, brighter light of the sun is blinding for an instant compared to the softer, cooler light of the moon. He takes a moment to bask in it, lifting his head up to let the rays fall upon his entire face for the first time in a while. 

Even when he has taken breaks in the past, it is rare for him to drift far from his workroom. Rarer still for him to go outside. Why would he need to? 

Mairon glances back over his shoulder towards the doors leading out to the balcony, where Khamul lurks within the shadows of the building. There is a line upon the ground where the sun’s light does not breech any further, and Khamul stands very deliberately just beyond it. Interesting.

A look to his side confirms Angmar has no such troubles with the sun. In fact, at some point during the night he had slumped to the side, head resting on his crossed arms, which lay upon the barrier. Sleeping, it seemed, and while Mairon had no familiarity with the practice it does not seem comfortable to attempt slumber hunched over like that.

He’s sure when Angmar wakes up, he’ll complain rather vocally about his knees hurting from kneeling upon the hard stone, and his shoulders from the awkward way he has had to curl in on himself to let his head rest without falling. 

He’s also sure if he woke him up now and instructed him to sleep in an actual bed, that Angmar would not be in such pain later. 

Hm. 

Mairon leaves him to rest. Angmar is grown, he can suffer the consequences of his own bad choices. It is not his responsibility- _nor burden_ -to baby him.

“It appears I have been,” Mairon finally replies, turning completely towards Khamul and letting his back face the sun as it rises in the East, cresting slowly over the side of Mount Doom. The rays fall upon his back, but provide no warmth.

_”What is that thing, lieutenant?“_

_”The last fruit of the Golden Tree that survived your attack. I believe they have taken to calling it the Sun.”_

_”Rather garish thing.”_

_”As you say, my lord.”_

“I was…taking a break, as it were.” 

“Are you alright, my lord?” 

“Perfectly,” Mairon huffs. Apparently, Angmar’s sentimentality has infected Khamul as well, if they are both harassing him with the same question. Khamul, at least, takes the hint and changes the subject instead of barreling onwards.

“I have some new word from the south,” Khamul says, and for the first time Mairon takes note of the papers he is holding at his side, tucked under one arm. His distaste is apparently visible on his face, as Khamul smiles and pats the files with his other hand. “Do you wish to read it, or would you like to continue your break?”

“My break has already been interrupted,” Mairon replies dryly, and Khamul’s smile widens. He starts to shift, to take a step forward, back inside the fortress when an idea forms in his mind and he pauses. “Bring it here,” He calls instead, holding out a hand for the papers but not moving forward. 

Khamul’s gaze flicks quickly from the outstretched hand, to the papers, and finally eastward, but he shuffles out into the sunlight and relinquishes the papers readily enough, the smile still present on his face. Honestly, if Mairon had not been in his company for hundreds of years, he would not have even noticed something was wrong. There’s no obvious response, which is good. If Khamul’s response to sunlight was to turn to stone like cave trolls, he was going to have to reevaluate his plans. 

And perhaps invest in a chisel. 

Mairon turns his gaze to the papers before him and skims the writing, flipping each parchment over as he finishes it to continue. As he reads, a frown starts to tug at his lips that gradually deepens with each page he turns. They do not reveal a story he likes. 

He had elected to ignore the tiny island of Numenor thus far for several reasons. 

First, getting there required crossing an ocean, and Mairon doubted that Ulmo would have any qualms about crushing a boatful of orcs the moment it left the harbors. The Valar had been content to ignore him thus far, and he had no desire to deliberately antagonize them back into a war by attacking an island they had _made_. Let them mind their business, and he’ll mind his. 

Second, even if he was allowed passage across the sea, advancing armies would be limited by the number of boats that could be built, while Numenor already had such an armada. Attempting to engage them on the sea would be pointless. He would only lose such battles against a superior, already established naval might. 

Third, he had already extended his shadow to them in the gifting of three rings of power to Men originally from Numenor, including Angmar himself. Those three had managed to grow a discontent there before they left, which recently devolved into a full-scale rebellion, which in turn unseated the rightful line of Kings in favor of some upstart he could not recall the name of. That was….what, forty some years ago? 

So, he had let them do as they wished, bickered idly over settlements across the coast to keep them occupied, but generally given them run of the South while he focused on quashing elven settlements to the East of the Misty Mountains with the intention that once he had claimed all lands North of Mordor, he would turn his gaze to the South once more. 

“So, they are expanding Northward from Umbar,” He murmurs. Apparently, Numenor decided that the small number of troops he occasionally waved in their direction was not enough of a challenge for them. Mistakenly _on foot_ where they would lose their tactical advantage of the oceans trying to create settlements. 

_How bold of them,_ he thinks. 

“How foolish of them,” he says.

Umbar was close, and with only a week of journeying it would be easy to reach his gates. But whatever force they could land with would pale in comparison to the armies of Mordor. 

“Let them throw themselves upon the Black Gates,” Mairon finishes as he organizes the papers back into a pile and deposits it into Khamul’s waiting hands. “They’ll bleed out upon the spires long before they breach it.”

“What of the king?” 

“What of him?” Mairon says with a shrug. “Either he will see the errors of his ways and withdrawal his forces, or he continue to march against Mordor until such a time that his forces are weakened to the extent that we shall reclaim Umbar. It is of little consequence what he decides to do.” 

“Very well, I shall inform the troops to reinforce the gates,” Khamul with a slight bow and turns away to enforce his orders. While Mairon can appreciate the haste, their conversation is hardly finished and he has no intentions of letting him run so easily. 

“So,” Mairon calls out before Khamul can make himself scarce. “How long have you been slinking about in the shadows, avoiding the sun? Taking a lesson from the books of orcs and goblins, are we?”

“Ah,” Khamul responds, stopping short of the doorway back into the fortress and turning his head to look back. “You noticed that.” 

“You are originally from the deserts of the East. Of course I would suddenly take note of an avoidance of light, after you spent so long of your life basking in it.” Mairon glances up from his paperwork, meeting Khamul’s gaze. “Has it begun to hurt you?”

“Nothing so serious, my lord,” Khamul responds and Mairon watches as he lifts a hand up to his head, to rub at his temples with a slight frown. “It merely makes me…dizzy, and my thoughts clouded, to walk in the daylight.” He’s quiet for a few moments, before adding. “I would describe the sensation as being similar to indulging in too much wine, but I do not suppose you would understand the comparison.”

“Hm,” Mairon hums. He is right, of course. Even the idea partaking in something to deliberately shake the senses and rattle the brain is foreign, let alone actually consuming something like wine or ale. “Are you sure you simply have not been seeking the comforts of wine more recently, and the sun has nothing to do with it?” Khamul laughs in response, but shakes his head humorously.

“No, my lord.”

“When did you first notice it?” 

“Hm. In truth, I cannot recall. Several years ago, perhaps twenty or so. It is hard to say.” 

“Has it gotten worse?”

“Only over the course of many years. One day to the next, there is no change.”

“Have the others complained of anything similar to you?” Angmar might be able to rest in the light without any apparent distress, but he was also an idiot and just as likely sleep there regardless of any pain or dizziness. Besides that, if Khamul himself was apprehensive about alerting him to _whatever_ this was, he would not be surprised if the others did not speak to him on the matter either. 

“No, I have not heard anything from them.” 

_So it was only isolated to him._

“Has it interfered with your missions?”

“No. The troops tend to march at night anyway, and-as you can see-I can still stand in the daylight.”

“Hm.” It hasn’t alleviated his concerns about this new potential new side effect, but at least the time scale and effect do not seem to be significant. Khamul was not the first of the Nine to accept a ring, so the fact he is currently the only one to experience such things means there may be another reason. Moreover, a small amount of discomfort is hardly cause to stop him from fulfilling his duties. “Very well, you may go. But you will inform me immediately if you notice any differences.” 

“Of course,” Khamul replies with a smile, and sweeps back inside the fortress. 

“Of course…?” Mairon prompts, _again,_ and he hears the laughter that bounces back through the hallways in turn. 

“Of course, my lord.”

\-----

He leaves Angmar where he lies. 

Mairon has no doubt that Angmar will be up and causing a fuss in a few hours anyway, so he’ll take his few hours of peace while he can. He drifts through his halls almost aimlessly, but it is of little surprise when he finds himself standing out of his workroom. Where else would he go?

Someone has closed the door. 

_Likely Khamul,_ he thinks. Only he and the Nine would this high up in the tower in the first place, and Khamul had just sought him out to show him the documents detailing Numenor’s change in behavior. Mairon can imagine Khamul looking around in his workroom for him, finding it bare, and then closing the door on the way out to go find where he had wandered. 

He stares at the heavy door looming in front of him, expression blank as he studies it. It is some ornately carved, wooden thing stained a darker color. 

_Open it._.

He can’t remember commissioning it, and orcs had no real eye for beautiful things. Did he construct it himself? 

_There is work to be done._

His hand drifts towards the doorknob, but he hesitates- _why?_ -before he can touch it. His jaw clenches and he forces his hand forward to grasp at the cold metal, twisting it until the door creaks open.

The workroom inside is unchanged. Dim. Stone, wood and parchment illuminated by torchlight. Smelling of paper and ink. The door closes behind him with a soft thump and he steps forward further. One step, then another, slowly back towards his desk where he sits. Almost automatically his hand moves towards his quill, only to grasp at nothing.

For a moment he is puzzled before a frown tugs at his features. _Right_. Mairon glances around then stands, reluctantly seeking out another desk. Not the one Khamul favors, since he’ll have need of his own quill. No, instead he makes his way towards a dustier, unused desk in a far corner, plucking a plain, gray quill from a long-abandoned resting place.

There’s dried ink upon the tip that he scratches at with a nail as he walks back towards his own desk, and then continues to pick at even after he has sat down. 

A tool is a tool.

_”I have a present for you, Annatar!”_

There is no difference between this quill and his old one. 

_”A quill? Ah, perhaps you are tired of me always stealing yours, Celebrimbor. You could have said as such.”_

It feels clunky in his hand but he will adjust in time.

_”Maybe I wanted to be the Lord of Gifts, for once.”_

He shoves the memory aside, drowns his mind until it is quiet, and picks up a piece of parchment from the stack to place before him. He does not wait for it to settle on the desk before is dipping the end of his new quill into the inkwell, and sets it to the page, ready to silence his mind completely in the familiar sound and tedious work. 

_Scrape, scrape._

Hm.


	4. Chapter 4

The unfamiliar noise of the new quill fades into a low white noise that scrapes instead of scratches at the back of his mind, but he eventually falls back into a more familiar pace.

The paper moves to the side to dry. 

A new parchment is plucked from the pile.

His quill dips into the inkwell.

_Scrape, scrape._

…

The paper moves to the side to dry. 

Time passes easily, like that. He works through the day, then night, then day again, distantly aware of the cycling of the sun and moon despite never seeing them from the depths of his tower. 

At one point, he is certain he can hear Angmar’s voice from the other side of the closed door, but there is a quiet murmur of other hushed voices, and after a few moments the sound fades down the hall in the other direction. 

The door never opens, and he is never disturbed. 

Days pass. He can tell the sun rises and falls, but at some point he has stopped counting exactly how many he has spent in his workroom, hunched over the table, hand never straying far from the script or from his inkwell. 

It is only when he has finished an entire stack that he stands and lets his hand rest. He sweeps the completed papers into his arms and adds them to the bookshelves where appropriate, or sets them aside delivered to areas beyond Mordor. 

The rest does not last long. There is always more work to be done. He collects a new pile of parchments, and returns to his desk.

So the cycle continues. 

_Scrape, scrape._

\-----

“MY LORD!” 

Another repetition. 

Angmar is fortunate indeed that he was in the midst of dipping the quill into the inkwell, rather than writing, so the parchment is spared. That will save him some torment, at least. Still, it is nearly automatic that the moment the door bangs open, that Mairon flares out his magic to cast the annoyance back _out of his workroom_ and into the hall. He can hear the crumbling of rocks behind him, as the force of being hurled by magic has once again broken the far wall.

If only Angmar learnt his lesson, perhaps repairs could pause.

He sighs and stands, walking out towards the door into the hallway, mouth already open to scold Angmar for making the same mistake twice and-

Wait.

It is not Angmar.

It is Khamul who he has thrown against the wall and has pinned there, Khamul who does not look sheepish or apologetic for a breech in etiquette but rather looks _concerned_ and _frantic_ in a way that actually makes Mairon draw up short and pause, standing in the open doorway. 

Oh dear.

“My lord,” Khamul wheezes, “At the gate…an army approaches.” He coughs quietly and Mairon blinks for a moment before he finally makes the connection and releases his hold on Khamul’s chest, letting him drop to the floor and breathe easier. 

“Oh,” Mairon murmurs, still rather surprised. This had not been what he was expecting. “I suppose you did have a reason to yell, then.”

“The goblins have fled,” Khamul adds quickly, holding a hand across his chest. Fortunately he does not manhandle his servants too harshly, so he’ll escape with only bruises. He should, anyway, though even now he finds he mixes up the constitutions of Men and Elves a bit much. Sometimes he even overestimates how resilient-or lack thereof-some elves are in comparison to others. Fingolfin probably would not have eve flinched. “Your forces have fled and there is an _army_ upon the gates.” That would explain the panic in his voice, then. 

“What use is an army that flees?” Mairon murmurs to himself, closing his eyes, trying to think. He has some time, fortunately, even if his army has fled. The Black Gate will still accomplish what he originally intended in keeping the invaders out for a time, but without troops above to reinforce the structure eventually it would be overrun or perhaps even demolished.

_”My lord, Ancalagon the Black has fallen from the skies! Our armies are defeated and the survivors flee before the Host of the West!”_

It does remind him of the First Age. Uncomfortably so, even. His frown deepens in thought as a familiar voice echoes in his mind.  


“What shall we do?" 

_”What shall we do?”_

“I shall handle it, Khamul.”

_”I shall handle it, lieutenant.”_

\-----

There is a noise at the Black Gate that he can hear as he approaches. Some loud racket, that as he draws closer, he can make out to be a voice. He climbs the stairs swiftly up to the top of the gate, walks the short distance to the edge and cautiously peers out below. 

There is a large mass of Men assembled there, adorned in armor, waving banners and some of them wielding trumpets instead of swords. The army extends back as far as the eye can see, and with the sun setting behind them they make quite a sight.

“-and I would never have expected the so-called King of Kings to be a coward!” The figure at the front calls, and Mairon turns his gaze towards him as he struts to and fro before his army. He appears to be in the midsts of some grandiose speech to rally his troops, and is adorned from head to toe in armor of gold instead of iron, steel or leather. 

“They must have arrived not that long ago,” Khamul states softly as he climbs the stairs after him, squinting in the harsh light. He immediately seeks shelter behind one of the twisted iron spikes that lines the front of the gate to provide cover for arrow fire. Or, in this case, cover from the sunlight. “Less than a few hours, to be sure. I sought to tell you as soon as I noticed their advancing march, and ran ahead to call you before they had arrive. I sent word to the others, but I do not know when they shall return from their own duties.”

Mairon leans against the ramparts, watching the demonstration with amusement. It doesn’t appear that they’ve noticed him, and frankly the posturing is distracting enough that he doubts anyone will take notice of him any time soon. 

“Khamul, who is that?” Mairon asks after a moment, his gaze fixed upon the figure as he paces back and forth, shouting rallying words to his allies and insults towards the gate. Insults directed at him. _How quaint_. 

“King Ar-Pharazon of Numenor,” Khamul responds after he peeks his head over the iron spikes, then slips back down so he remains unseen and out of the daylight. Mairon glances towards him, and a faint smile creeps onto his face.

“Yes, that name does sound familiar,” Mairon hums, and the name immediately slips from his mind. _Whoops_. “Do tell me, what is he doing outside my gate?”

“I warned you some weeks ago of his intentions to move North,” Khamul replies, and after a pointed look towards him, Khamul lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Apologies, my lord. It was included in my report, however.”

“Yes, I recall the conversation,” Mairon says in turn, turning his gaze once more towards the bellowing Man below. “But why is he _here?_ “ As in, why has the king himself decided to leave the safety and comfort of his island to lay siege to his doorstep? That, he had not expected, and could be why the goblins had fled. 

“He’s taken offense to your titles, Master,” A voice chimes in from his other side, and Mairon blinks, turning to find Angmar crouched there as well, hiding out of sight. 

“Have you been here this whole time?” Mairon asks blankly. If so, it’s impressive he’s managed to keep his mouth shut and avoid engaging the entire army given the insults actively being hurled against the gate towards his master.

“From what I heard of his speech before I sought you out, he wishes to stop the attacks upon the Numenorean settlements,” Khamul adds, and Angmar nods enthusiastically in turn. Mairon glances between the two of them, then leans back against the parapet to watch. He doesn’t bother to try to hide the way his lips curl up into a smile, which just barely shows a bit of his teeth.

“How humorous.”

The upstart is still prattling down at his doorstep. It does not look like he’ll stop any time soon unless _someone_ stops him, and his own armies are uselessly cowering elsewhere. Mairon doubts that the forces below will be able to easily breech the gates of Mordor within the next hour (Or two, for that matter), but it is still a headache to deal with and he does not want them to continue to bellow names upon his doorstep any longer.

His fingers curl into fists, and the air surrounding them begins to distort as the temperature rises.

Beside him, Khamul and Angmar both make to draw their blades. 

“-For we know the truth, and that it is I, Ar-Pharazon the Golden, am the true King of Men! The cowardice shown here today proves that the master of Mordor has no claim to the titles that he has assumed!”

_Wait._

Mairon lets the heat gathering at his hands fall away. He has no armies here, and will not be able to easily challenge forces below and walk away unscathed, even with two of the Nine at his side. He is not so headstrong that he will allow a few petty insults to sway him to combat recklessly. Moreover, an idea has sprung into his mind. 

An idea for _something new_.

“Perhaps this can work,” He muses quietly, never taking his eyes off of the man below. He can practically feel the pride radiating out from the entire army, but especially the figure _still_ managing to shout. If he were sure Angmar would not throw himself down to unseat the king himself, Mairon would be tempted to see how long he would be able to shout for before he became winded. Apparently, it may have already been a few hours. Louder, to Khamul and Angmar, he adds, “I suppose it is only appropriate to greet him, then. One King to another.”

“My Lord?”

“Master?”

Mairon ignores them, waving away their concerns as he makes his way towards the stairs leading back down to the ground, shedding his armor in the process. He makes it to the top of the steps before he pauses, glancing back towards Khamul. 

“What was his name again?”

“Ar-Pharazon, my lord,” Khamul repeats, slowly, then more hesitantly starts, “My lord, what-“

“Ar-Pharazon,” Mairon confirms, ignoring Khamul as he continues down the steps, then repeats it once more under his breath for good measure to try to commit it to memory for at least a short conversation.

The Black Gates were designed to be opened by trolls. He knows this because they are of his design, and forged using the power of the One Ring. He lifts his hand, his Ring, towards the door and _pulls_. The gate groans and creaks but it obeys and-slowly-begins to lurch open, providing just enough room for him to exit..

Beyond, he can hear the army grow silent, and the speeches of the king die on his tongue. 

Light floods into Mordor from the open gate. The sun is poised at the back of the armies of Numenorean armies and reflects off of their golden armor, creating a rather irritating glare. Still, he forces a smile upon his face, steps out beyond the safety of the gate into the light of the sun. The gate closes quickly behind him, keeping prying eyes out of Mordor. 

“My armies have fled,” He announces plainly, trying to keep the amusement or sneer out of his voice. Instead, he locks eyes with the king- _What was his name?_ and tilts his head slightly to the side. “It seems I have no choice but to surrender myself into your mercy.” 

He cannot seem remember the upstart’s name again. Damn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A scene from the Black Gate before Mairon and Khamul arrived:
> 
> Angmar: "Hello, who is it?"  
> Ar-Pharazon: "It is I, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden of Numenor, and this is my army! Go and tell your master that I am the King of Men and he shall surrender himself to me at once!"  
> Angmar: "Well I'll ask him but I don't think he'll be very keen. He's already the King of Kings you see."  
> Ar-Pharazon: "What?"  
> Angmar: "Oh yes, he's got a crown and everything. It's very nice."


	5. Chapter 5

There’s a nervous shuffling from the troops closest to the front who heard him. The horses they are mounted on know better than their masters and seem to have no desire to be anywhere close to him. Well, at least the beasts are smart enough to have some semblance of self preservation. 

His blackened crown still lies on the steps on the other side of the Black Gate, along with his armor. It’s an attempt to seem more subdued, more approachable and, more specifically, more humble.

His head does feel strangely bare without it, though.

The king finally urges his horse forward, and Mairon bows his head slightly as he approaches. They’re a fair distance from the army, and when he speaks the king drops his voice down low so their conversation cannot be overheard. 

“What game is this?” 

“Game?” Mairon echos softly, unable to help his confusion. He also takes care to keep his voice quiet, so that the army beyond cannot hear. “Do you not accept my surrender?” 

“No!” The king replies quickly. His gaze glances towards the Black Gate and Mairon follows, glancing back towards it as well.

“There is no army lying in ambush,” Mairon comments, glancing back towards the king. “As I said, they have scattered. Only I stand before you.”

“Yes…” The king murmurs, the skepticism palpable, before his eyes snap back towards Mairon. “In that case you must be Sauron.”

 ** _Sauron_**.

His hands jerk unconsciously, fingers curl into tight fists until his nails bite at the flesh of his palms. 

He could kill him, right now. 

No one would be able to stop him. He has drawn close already, too close, and even unarmed he could cast the king from his horse and trample his neck underfoot before anyone could react. He wants to. Oh, he desires it more than anything else right now. To cast him down, break him, then hang the body as a banner and a warning.

 _Like Celebrimbor_.

He bows his head instead, forcing his gaze downward. _Enough_ , he tells himself, for now was not the time to be tempted by malice. He was attempting to be cordial to avoid a fight, and while throttling the upstart king would give him a temporary satisfaction, it would also throw him into the midst of a battle with an army that he was trying to avoid. 

“Yes,” He hisses, then sucks in a breath and tries again, shoving his anger down as far as he can. “Yes,” He repeats, slightly louder, more blandly. 

“What are the terms of your surrender?”

“Unconditional,” Mairon responds. It is still hard to keep the bite out of his voice, so he keeps his gaze averted and bites his tongue. Quite literally, and very hard, until he can taste his own blood bloom inside his mouth. It does not help much, but he is…settling down. 

“Really?” The king replies, and Mairon can hear the skepticism in his voice. “And, if I said I intended to tear down your gates and fortresses, disband your armies, you would not protest?”

Mairon draws in a breath, carefully. Measured. “If that is what you wish,” He replies. It would be a difficult task for him, even with the troops assembled and even with the absence of his own army. Still, if he wished to invade Mordor, Mairon would allow him. He would open the Black Gates, even, and guide him down the road right to the mountain and cast him inside himself. “Although, they would be your gates and fortresses, and your armies at that time, and mine no longer.”

“Why?” 

_Why…?_

“It is only as I told you,” Mairon replies. Was the king a fool, or smarter than he seemed? Did he see the ruse, or not? “My armies are gone, scattered to the winds before the might of your superior forces. I have no choice but to surrender, and at that time my armies would become yours.”

“You could have fought,” The king replies, and Mairon jerks his head up out of the bow to look at the king properly once more. He’s still gazing up at the Black Gates, not even _looking_ at him. 

“What?”

“You could have fought,” The king repeats, and Mairon stares for a moment, trying to understand. There was something in his tone, something in his words that almost sounded…petulant. Sulking, like a spoiled child pouting. But why…?

Oh.

_Oh._

“Ah, I think I understand,” Mairon says, nodding. “You wished to best me in combat _before_ I surrendered. My apologies for the misunderstanding. If you’ll give me a moment, I can go back inside and we can start over, if that is what you wish.” He straightens and turns, meaning to head towards the gate. It would be tricky, but he can probably temper his blows enough to avoid killing the king outright in combat. Such a thing was not always easy for him, but if he is trying his very best he is sure he can only maim him some. 

Perhaps he will deliberately break his leg for that **_comment_** earlier. 

“Just a moment!” The king calls out, sputtering, and Mairon pauses, glancing back. He’s only managed to walk a few feet, but the king urges his horse forward to close the distance anyway. “That is not what I meant.” 

“Then what did you mean?”

“Nevermind,” The king responds with a frown, shaking his head. He clears his throat and when he speaks again, he is bellowing once more, so the army can hear his words. “I accept your surrender, and strip you of your titles! King of Men, you are no longer! Lord of the World you are no longer!” 

Those in the army closest to them who can hear the conversation cheer, and their exclamations of victory are quickly carried by the entire mass until the sounds of joy rattle off the nearby cliff faces. 

The game is not done, yet, however.

Mairon drops to a kneel where he stands, head lowered in deference to the king. Trying to navigate this entire conversation without remembering the king’s name has been somewhat difficult, but he no longer needs to remember it. 

“Your majesty,” Mairon says after allowing a moment for the soldiers to celebrate, allowing his own voice to carry as well over the crowd. “I willingly relinquish these titles to you. I beg your forgiveness for any past transgressions against you, and for my crimes I wish to swear my allegiance to you.”

Silence falls over the army, once again. _Good_.

“You would swear fealty to me?”

 _Yes. Claim the world as your own, and I shall wrench it out from your grasp before I strangle you for your impudence_.

“Of course, your majesty.”

There is a commotion from above, and a shout of alarm from somewhere within the ranks of the Numenorean army. Mairon glances back up towards the Black Gate, and is filled with a distinct _lack_ of surprise to find the source of the noise above is Angmar. He has one foot slung over the side of the barrier already as if he intends to jump, while his hands scramble for his sword to draw it. 

Well, one hand anyway. 

The other hand is trying to fend off Khamul, who has both hands on Angmar’s shirt and is apparently trying to draw him back from the edge. He can’t quite make out whatever the two are hissing and spitting at each other, but if he has to hazard a guess, Angmar must have taken offense to something that was said while Khamul was attempting to restrain him from acting foolish.

“Are those yours?” The King asks and Mairon turns, taking his sight temporarily off of his quarreling servants to look at him.

“Unfortunately,” He responds dryly.

There’s a surprised shout that has him turning back towards the Gate, just in time to see Angmar shift, foot slipping from the parapet. 

He falls back, sliding completely over the edge.

His hands fly out. They catch Khamul by the edge of his cloak.

Khamul stumbles, slips, and tumbles over the edge after him.

Mairon has half a mind to catch them, but he forces his hand back to his side before he can lift it completely. They shouldn’t die from a height that small with the power of their rings and- _frankly_ -they deserve any pain they suffer from it. Maybe a bit of consequences for their actions will keep them from being foolish in the future. Moreover, he is attempting to appear humbled. A suddenly display of magic will only serve to ruin the persona he has crafted during these last few minutes of conversation.

 _So they fall_. 

They both plummet down, slamming into the ground with a puff of volcanic ash and gravel that showers those closest in a rain of gray and black sand. The king’s horse rears slightly, and Mairon hears him swear and pull at the reins to reign the beast back in. 

“Hold!” He hears the king bellow from behind him, presumably to his forces.

Mairon’s attention, however, is still locked on his servants.

The cloud slowly clears, revealing Angmar had managed to twist in air, forcing Khamul underneath him to bear the blunt of the impact. In fact, he’s still kneeling on Khamul’s chest, having not even bothered to roll off of him after using his body as a glorified pillow to break his fall. Angmar’s face is smeared with blackened ash, though he doesn’t seem to care about that either as he draws his sword with a snarl, slowly climbing to his feet. 

“You dare talk to my master like-“ 

Mairon silences him quickly. He rises, strides the few feet towards his idiotic servant, grabs him by the hair closest to his scalp and slams his head down into the ground in a crude mockery of a bow. The words die out with the crunch of gravel, while the action allows Mairon to kneel once more, as if in deference. Khamul who is still trapped beneath Angmar’s knees, gives a low, pained cough from the increased pressure on his stomach, but manages to smile up at him.

“Sorry, my lord,” Khamul whispers. It almost makes him feel better.

“My apologies, your majesty,” Mairon calls out, voice raised so the king can hear. Angmar is still sputtering, trying to spit out both ash and curses at the same time, but Mairon silences him by forcing his head further into the ground. “For the behavior of my servants. They certainly can be overzealous.”

“I would say their loyalty is commendable, if not for the fact your armies exhibited such cowardice. Are your forces made exclusively of scared mice and rabid dogs?” 

He’s losing ground in this conversation now. _Damn, Angmar. Did his foolishness know no bounds?_

“Unfortunately, I can only dream of having an army as resolved as yours.”

“Oh, and what would you do with such an army? Conquer the world?”

 _Back up, back up._

“Perhaps at one time,” Mairon responds. The speech earlier proved the king was prideful. He merely needed to leverage that folly of his. “That was before I was aware of your might and majesty. I see the error of my ways now. I cannot hope to compare to your brilliance.” Quite literally, as the sun reflecting off his armor was practically tactical in how distracting it was. 

The king is silent for a few moments. 

“Do not deceive me,” The king finally says in response and Mairon forces his face to remain neutral. “The moment I leave you, your servants would continue to harass Numenor. You have proven you hold little control over them.”

_Perhaps the upstart is smarter than he originally gave him credit for._

“No, your oaths of fealty are useless to me,” The king continues. “I shall bring you back to Numenor to serve as a hostage instead. That should at least keep their tongues in check and their arms at bay.”

_Ah, or perhaps not._

“As you wish, your majesty,” Mairon replies, quickly bowing his head lower, his head swirling with possibilities. A ship full of orcs would have surely met their end long before they reached the island to conquer it, be it by Numenorean hands of Ulmo’s himself. But under the pretense of being bested and imprisoned, he could safely sail across the sea and conquer Numenor himself. Not by force, but by subtlety, and clever words.

Oh yes. This could serve his intentions very well.

“Bind him,” The king orders, and, after a moment of thought, “The other two as well. We shall take all three with us back to Armenelos.”


	6. Chapter 6

It is clear to Mairon as soon as he is bound that the king had not actually expected to take him prisoner at any point prior to actually decreeing it. 

It takes the army a moment to produce chains at all. Minutes pass where Mairon remains kneeling- _not out of respect for the king, but rather to keep Angmar’s head forced down into the ash_ -before there is a murmur from the army and a singular foot soldier emerges from the crowd with a few sets of fetters and coils of rope.

It is only then that Mairon untangles his hand from Angmar’s hair and stands, presenting his hands to the soldier with a pleasant, polite smile. Angmar stirs below him, but a sharp kick to the back of the head keeps him down for the moment.

When the shackles of iron are finally placed around his wrists, they are large, clunky and impersonal. They are well forged, yes, and the chain binding them together is sturdy and strong, true, but he could probably slip his wrists free from the cuffs without actually needing to alter his form at all. They were clearly designed for someone burlier than him. 

Either way, the shackles would be much more effective on his servants, who cannot so easily change their shape.

_On that note…_

Mairon shoots a _look_ at Angmar before he can even think to cause a commotion again. Not that he ever does seem to think, but just this once Angmar seems inclined to listen and submits to being bound. Barely. The same nameless solider reaches down to pull him up, only for Angmar to bat his hands away with a snarl and clamber to his own feet without assistance. He does allow the heavy shackles to be clicked shut around his wrists, though. 

Good. 

Khamul is more inclined to accept the help when it is offered. In fact, it takes a second soldier to get him on his feet again, and the two carefully bind his wrists as well. 

Mairon does not pay attention to his two servants for long. The rope is looped through the chains binding his wrists together, which is then tied to the saddle of the king’s horse. Khamul and Angmar are not given as high of an ‘honor’, and instead are banished a short distance away to be tethered to some other horse. It is close enough that Mairon can still see them, but far enough away that he can not conspire with them in hushed tones. 

He is inclined to think the king is an idiot for still keeping Angmar and Khamul together to whisper to one another, but Mairon knows the two would never willingly cooperate on anything unless specifically ordered to do so. 

Mairon glances towards the sky, then back towards Khamul. He’s in the middle of hissing some inaudible something to Angmar, but there’s a tension in his face that does not belong there. Perhaps it is from the sun, only just starting to set in the West, and the light it casts down upon them unrelentingly. Perhaps he was injured in the fall more severely than he let on, since he had required assistance in climbing off the ground, and his hands are awkwardly poised at his side, as if guarding it. 

_Perhaps both._

Unfortunately, there is nothing that he can do for Khamul at the moment. He’ll have to bear the injuries on his own, and tolerate the blaze of the sun without assistance. 

“Do not test my patience by trying anything,” A stern voice warns suddenly, and Mairon turns his attention up, to the king still seated high upon his horse. The sun poised behind him, shining brilliantly across his golden armor, paints an image Mairon would almost be intimidated by, were he a lesser creature. 

“I would not dare, your majesty,” Mairon replies softly. He holds his gaze for a moment before he remembers to avert his eyes away and down and deliberately hunches his shoulders slightly in a way he has often seen Angmar do when being scolded. 

“All the same, you _will_ keep your tongue silent until we reach Umbar,” The king decrees. “I’ll not have you spoiling the men’s victory with your words.” Mairon feels his jaw clench slightly, but nods easily enough. There is no point in needlessly earning his ire before they have even reached Numenor by disobeying, and likewise there is no reason to talk to any of the soldiers assembled here. No, he’ll need to actually arrive at the island in order to properly assess whose ears are worth his words aside from the king himself. 

_He’ll need to ask Khamul for his name again, eventually._

The king huffs slightly, but turns forward and nudges his horses’s sides, spurring it forward into a proud walk. A moment later the rope tugs Mairon’s wrists forward and he steps forward as well, falling into a pace just to the side and some feet back from the king and his mount. The army follows in suit, turning away from the Black Gate and Mordor. 

\-----

The walk back to Umbar takes seven days in total. 

The soldiers celebrate the entire time with trumpets and banners and a loud chatter which only increases in volume as they finally arrive in the port city. People line the streets and stare from windows to watch the victorious parade make its way towards the harbor.

Mairon ignores them all. The spectacle does little to humble him when he is only here because he _desired_ to be. He turns his gaze towards the Armada instead, taking in the vast fleet that bobs in the water ahead of them. The number of ships is massive enough that not all actually fit within the docks, and many have been anchored a distance out, requiring smaller boats to ferry passengers a short distance to them before they can be boarded.

The king’s ship is immediately obvious, standing far larger and grander than any of the other in the fleet and anchored in the middle of the docks. Its golden and sable sails are an impressive show of craftsmanship, and Mairon pauses to admire the vessel while the rope binding him to the king’s horse is severed. He spies a regal looking throne atop the highest deck towards the stern of the ship, covered in gold and jewels with a red velvet pillow serving as a seat. It is not a difficult task to imagine who sits there.

He is only able to observe for a moment, however, before he is escorted onto the lower deck of the ship and quickly guided down below into the belly of the ship, to the bottom most floor, and finally into a cell with iron bars in place of a wall and door. 

The cell is lit by a single porthole on the far wall. Waves splash at it, covering the glass with a spray of water, and through it Mairon can see the docks already begin to drift away. It seems the king’s men are terribly efficient at what they do, and the ship has already set sail for Numenor.

 _He’s almost jealous of that kind of efficiency_.

The three wooden walls have benches jutting out of them into the room proper, which serve as both seats and beds. The shackles remain on his wrists- _perhaps some kind of deterrent from attempting to escape?_ -but he is content to ignore them by now. 

The cell door does not remain closed for even a minute before it swings open again and Angmar and Khamul are pushed inside. It is swiftly locked, and the guards who brought them down retreat up the steps. Mairon can hear the clamor above of multiple muffled footsteps and voices, but with the disappearance of the soldiers and no other prisoners, they are alone.

Alone…At last.

Mairon’s gaze flickers to Angmar. His punishment for the scene he pulled at the Black Gate is long overdue. Several days long overdue, as Mairon has dulled his tongue and spoken softly and kindly and done his best to appear truly humbled before the king before he was ordered into silence. Those days spent muzzled only served to worsen his temper. 

And oh, Mairon is more than tempted to hurt Angmar now. Indeed, the only thing staying his hand is the fact they are currently aboard a ship, and the only thing between them and the sea is a thin layer of wood. He knows that if he allows himself to punish Angmar, if he allows his temper to get the better of him, he is likely to cast Angmar straight through the hull and doom them all.

Not just likely, even. Mairon _would_ break the ship around them, and would spend his last moments trying to drown Angmar in the murky depths before Ulmo drowned him in turn. 

He tilts his head slightly as he observes Angmar, considering how he can punish him best without physically laying his hands- _or magic_ -upon him. Verbally berating him has never worked well in the past, as Angmar has a tendency to either completely shrug off insults with the aid of an incredibly thick skin, or not even recognize them as insults in the first place. 

It is hard to tell which, honestly. 

Perhaps it was as Khamul said. Angmar _was_ rather like a dog ~~and about half as useful~~. Mairon could murmur as many insults as he desired into his ear, but as long as his tone was soft and sweet Angmar would likely perceive them as compliments. And still, even if his tone was wrathful, Angmar _still_ seemed equally pleased to just be in his presence unless it was backed up with a show of force. Shows of force that he rebounded quickly from both emotionally, and physically the latter being thanks to the power of the Ring he bore.

His fanatical loyalty was equally vexing and useful.

So. He needed a straight-forward way of expressing his ire that Angmar could not possibly misinterpret. Something to help him realize the gravity of what he has done. Something **devastating** , to indicate how very close he had been to ruining the plans his master had designed. 

“Khamul,” Mairon finally says, cutting through the silence, his tone bland and flat. “I have decided. You are my favorite.”

…

“Favorite what, my lord?” Khamul asks after a beat of silence, at the same time that Angmar makes a pained noise in his throat like a wounded animal.

“Favorite of the Men, favorite servant.” Mairon responds with the barest of shrugs. He watches long enough to see Angmar’s face morph into one of absolute dismay before Mairon turns away from both of them to gaze out, past the bars of their prison and out into the hall instead. _Good._ “Either. Both.”

“Master!” Angmar protests from behind him, but Mairon ignores him, turning his head away even further until he is nearly staring at the corner in his efforts to avoid looking at him. 

“Now, now, Angmar,” Khamul says, and Mairon can hear the mocking inflection in his tone. “You heard our lord. Are you questioning him?” 

“Yes!” Angmar responds instantly then, half a second later seemingly realizes his mistake and quickly amends, “No!” There’s a silence where Mairon can nearly feel his frustrated gaze upon his back. When Mairon does not even turn towards him to acknowledge his words, Angmar continues, though there is an uncertainty laced in his words. “Why are you his favorite? What have you done to earn such a thing?” 

“Paperwork, I imagine.”

“ _Anyone_ can do that. I can do that!”

“Truly? I thought you were quite allergic to the concept. When was the last time you dwelled in our lord’s workroom for more than the five seconds it took for him to kick you back out?”

Angmar makes another pained noise from behind him, this time laced with frustration. Mairon does not dignify him with a response, and the two continue to bicker behind him. This entire conversation has made him realize that indeed, Khamul _was_ correct in his evaluation of Angmar. 

The most devastating punishment that he can inflict upon Angmar is neither torture, nor foul words. No physical punishment would linger long enough to drive the point home, no insults would break past his thick skull to actually pierce his brain. 

No, the worst thing he can do to Angmar is _ignore_ him.

So he does. He lets the verbal quarrel between his two servants continue, though the squabble quickly fades to a white noise in his ears as he lets his thoughts drift. 

A part of his mind, ever present and always scratch-scratch-scratching at the back of his brain, whispers quietly of deadlines and paperwork that need to be done. 

His fingers unconsciously curl, as if grasping for a quill. 

There is nothing to hold. There is no ruffle of parchment, no faint smell of ink nor dust. The light from the porthole is dim but distinctly different than the flickering of torchlight. For the first time in centuries, there is no paperwork to be done.

His lips curl up in the faintest of smiles.

_Wonderful._


	7. Chapter 7

The cell in the bottom of the king’s ship is small, only six paces across and the same distance to the back from the door. Part of that space is occupied by the three benches that line each wall-save the front-which in themselves are just wide enough to lay upon and rest, but too small to roll on without falling off. The floors, walls and ceiling are all made of the same kind of wood, likely felled from great trees based on the length of each board. Even here, in the bottom of the ship, the floor is surprisingly dry indicating the fine craft of the ship extended beyond its colorful sails.

The aforementioned front of the cell is made of sturdy iron beams rather than planks of wood, which have been woven over each other, providing no privacy from the outside. A door of similar structure takes up a part of the iron wall, with a heavy lock upon the outside to keep those inside imprisoned. Each strip of iron overlapping leaves a square shape in between just large enough that he would be able to fit his through, were the shackles still not bound around his wrists. As it were, only his hands fit through the gap before the cuffs bang awkwardly against the iron latticework. Upon further inspection, there is an additional, smaller door at the bottom of the cell towards one side, far too small for a person to fit through. 

Perhaps a small dog or cat could slip through it, though _why_ this would be included in the design escapes him. The door’s exact purpose remains unclear.

From the far side of the cell, he can just spy the bottom of the stairs, though the usefulness of this is minimized as he is far more likely to hear anyone treading down the stairs long before he would see them. The ship’s floorboards are not well insulated and even now he can hear the stomping of soldiers overhead and their shouts of celebration and victory. The racket is both irritating for how loud it is, and useful, for it is likely to cover up small whispers of conversation. As long as they do not raise their voices, they should go unheard, even to someone just beyond the door of the cell. 

On his walk down, Mairon could see that the hall is lined with similar cells to the one he is currently housed in, but they are either empty, their inhabitants are unusually silent, or their inhabitants are no longer living. No, it is much more likely that Angmar, Khamul and he are the only three occupants on this floor. He would have heard something by now. 

A thought crosses Mairon’s mind that perhaps being down here is meant to unnerve him. The cell could be considered cramped to share with two others, and with the only natural source of light being the porthole the nights would be dark on nights where the moon was hidden. There is no way to know how far from land they are. Attempting to keep them together may be to ensure they do not go completely mad in isolation during the journey, while everything else is deprived.

Perhaps, if he were not who he was, the tactic would work. 

Mairon is more than used to spending extensive periods of time in small room, seated at a chair, working. This room is actually _larger_ than the space he is used to occupying regularly. He has no need for food nor rest, and at any time he wished he could slip the shackles free and melt the lock upon the door, should he decide to just alert his shape into something small like a mouse and squeeze through the bars, leaving behind no trace of how he escaped. 

He is not _imprisoned_. He is _humoring_ them all.

In fact, Mairon would probably prefer to be in a cell by himself. Only time will tell if one, perhaps both of his servants will meet an unfortunate end before they arrive at Numenor. 

Idly, he is aware he has been staring outside of the cell, ignoring those two for some time now. Several hours, even. The sound of bickering has died down so, finally, he turns to look towards the other occupants. 

At some point, Angmar had taken to one of the benches near the corner and was laying down, back turned towards the center of the room. Whether he was merely moping or actually sleeping, Mairon did not know nor care to find out. His punishment had not ended yet, so for the foreseeable future he was being ignored.

Instead his gaze focuses on Khamul, who has elected to sit in the corner adjacent to the one Angmar claimed. He has one leg dangling down off of the bench, but the left leg is bent at the knee and tucked close to his chest, giving him a rest for his arm to drape over the knee. The chains binding his wrists together makes it so his right hand is able to rest upon his lap without bearing the full weight of the heavy, iron shackles. It _also_ allows him to discretely press his right hand against his side. Khamul’s eyes are fixed to the far wall, but his expression is blank, lost completely in his own thoughts. 

There is little else to do in the cell except think, after all.

Mairon crosses the room quietly, and it isn’t until he has passed in front of Khamul’s line of sight that his servant jerks out of his own thoughts with a start. By the time Khamul has recovered, Mairon has already wordlessly taken a seat next to him. 

He keeps his gaze on the bars on the far side of the room, but he can feel Khamul’s eyes on him. 

_Waiting for orders_.

“Khamul,” He calls out softly. “What did you say the king’s name was?”

“Ar-Pharazon,” Khamul replies, his voice equally as quiet, barely a whisper so that even Mairon has to strain to hear over the noise from above. Then, after a beat of silence. “My lord, did you _just now_ forget his name, or did you forget the moment I told you?”

“Hm,” He hums, noncommittally. “Perhaps.” 

“My lord, did you surrender to a man whose name you cannot even recall?”

“Even if I did, it is irrelevant now,” Mairon replies thoughtfully, and while he does not turn to see it he can imagine the kind of face Khamul is making. “No one noticed, and I find myself in the very novel position of only needing to refer to him by address, not name. I was only asking because I was curious, but you do not need to tell me.”

“But I have already told you,” Khamul responds. “ _Again._ ” 

“Did you?” Mairon murmurs and quickly skims back over their conversation in his mind. Hm. No, he just cannot seem to recall. “It seems I’ve forgotten it yet again.”

“ _My lord._ ”

The almost playful exasperation is gone from Khamul’s voice in favor of _something_ else, which in turn has Mairon pulling his gaze away from the door to look at Khamul properly. There is no smile there. No, instead his features are clouded by some serious, solemn thing visible in the furrowing of his eyebrows, the downward curve of his lips into a tight frown, the lines under his eyes. There is something else as there as well. Something that Mairon might not have noticed if he had not seen the same expression before, countless times in the faces of those who attempted to defy him but found their reckoning to be imminent.

_Desperation_

“You do not have to tell me the details,” Khamul continues, softly, clearly uncertain. _He is tempted, for barely an instant, to gouge Khamul’s eyes out, just so he stops looking at him **like that**._ The impulse is immediately stifled, and his hand does not so much as twitch in response. “But…You do have a plan, yes? You have not truly…given up?”

It is a fair question.

In truth, he had not expected those two to accompany him to Numenor. In part because he expected to handle the king alone, and in part because he _never expected to go to Numenor_. He had left them at the Black Gate and had incorrectly assumed that they would stay put or risk the ire of both the massive army, and himself. Then again, that would require some sense of self preservation, which Angmar clearly did not have. Still, he is nothing if resourceful and was very willing to compromise his prior plans. After all, being Numenor served his intentions even better than swearing some arbitrary allegiance to a king he intended to kill some point in the future anyway. It certainly was far less complicated trying to kill someone who was not an ocean away.

His gaze flickers towards the door. 

No one is there.

He keeps his gaze trained there anyway, just in case.

“There are faster ways of giving up than to surrender myself to Men,” Mairon whispers. “The king-“

“Ar-Pharazon,” Khamul corrects, which Mairon promptly ignores, then forgets. 

“-is prideful. I shall merely encourage his pride in the right direction, and once he has taken the world for himself, I will take it from him in turn.”

“How very clever of you,” Khamul responds, and the faint smile has returned, even if it is still strained. 

“Sometimes, the simplest of plans succeed where convoluted ones fail.”

“As you say, my lord.”

“As I say,” Mairon confirms with a nod. Khamul cannot slink off while confined to the cell with him, so he allows the conversation to fall into silence for a beat. Then two. Long enough for Khamul to lean back slightly, letting his shoulder tap against the wooden hull of the ship behind them. “So,” Only then he adds, falling into a familiar rhythm. “How is your side?”

“Ah,” Khamul responds, though his smile seems a bit fatigued, as if he is only going through the motions instead of actually enjoying their conversation. Still, he plays his part well enough. “You noticed that.”

“I saw you fall from a height that would have killed many of your kind,” Mairon comments idly, “I would need to be blind to miss such a thing.”

“The weeks walk that followed was hardly restful either, though I believe Angmar may have made me feel worse than the daylight.” 

“Well, your injuries have not robbed you of your humor, at least.”

“He is a menace when he is not around you,” Khamul insists. The look Mairon must be giving him must be telling, because he eventually amends with, “He is a _different kind_ of menace when he is not around you.” Mairon does not respond to this claim, instead taking the moment where Khamul has let his guard fall and his arm slip slightly from its protection of his side to jab at his ribs quickly. When his finger is batted away with a surprised, pained yelp, Mairon is hardly surprised, though he does look at Khamul with the flattest expression he can muster.

Both of Khamul’s hands were now splayed out over his side defensively, the cuffs on his wrist providing some extra shielding, and he has pressed himself into the far corner, leaning as far away as he physically can without trying to merge with the wall. Both of his legs are now pulled up close to his chest, guarding his torso from being prodded again.

It is almost amusing how futile his efforts are. 

“Do you not wish for me to heal it?” Mairon asks blandly, and Khamul stares at him, as if he had expected Mairon had only poked him to hurt him. Not an incorrect assessment, were he someone else. A prisoner, perhaps. Angmar as well. 

“Can you do that?” Khamul finally asks, hesitantly, after a few moments have passed in silence.

“Why not?” Mairon asks, tilting his head to one side. “The bodies of Men are not so different from anything else. My power already is preserving your life. I do not see why I cannot heal you.”

“You make it sound like you have never tried,” Khamul points out, to which Mairon shrugs carelessly.

“I have not.”

“Well, I do not think that is how it works,” Khamul murmurs. “So…I will politely decline.” 

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, I will be fine with time.”

“Very well,” Mairon says, and turns his attention back towards the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Khamul gradually relax, though he keeps both of his knees hugged close to his chest. “You should rest as well, then,” He adds, several minutes later when the thought occurs to him, but when he turns his head to the side Khamul’s eyes are closed, and his head has already dipped down and slightly to the side to lean against the wall. 

He stares for a moment, then leans his head back, letting his own eyes slip closed.

 _”I do not think I have ever seen you sleep, Annatar. If I did not know any better, I would you never did at all.”_

_”If you wish for an invitation to my sleeping quarters, you shall need to try harder than that, Celebrimbor. Just because you sleep in a forge does not mean the rest of us must.”_

Familiar laughter, light like bells, rings in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khamul: "Hey I'm really concerned about this plan you haven't told us anything about and that makes me feel sad."  
> Mairon: "Get rid of your emotions. We can't let people know we REGRET THINGS."


	8. Chapter 8

_“I thought you did not like elves,” Mairon had commented, when he sought out his lord and found him within the depths of Utumno. It was not quiet in the dungeon-far from it-and the noise of those trapped within its thick, stone walls had made his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists. This was not what he had been expecting. This had been different._

_“I do not,” Melkor had confirmed quietly, though he never turned._

_“Then why capture them?” Mairon had prompted after a few moments when Melkor did not continue. He dared not drift further into the room. “Why not simply kill them? It is within your power.”_

_“You underestimate me, lieutenant,” Melkor had replied as his hands found the hilt of a small, simple knife. He had lifted the blade carefully, turning it over in his hands, feeling the weight in his hands. It had been far cry from his preferred weaponry, and something about the scene before him had Mairon tensing further, though he did not know why. “Have patience. There are far worse things you can do than kill.”_

_”I do not understand, my lord,” Mairon had replied, uncertain, cautious._

_**”Would you like to?"** _

It had taken years. Years before Melkor was satisfied with the results of his labors and Mairon’s stomach had twisted at the sight of the wretched _things_ he had created. They could no longer be called elves. They were something new entirely. 

_”I did not like them, so I changed them. Am I not clever, lieutenant?”_

Even now, reflecting on the memory, Mairon’s mouth quirks down into a frown. He does not know why he thinks of it now. His mind had been wandering much of late, which he does not care for. These old memories had not bothered him before. What changed now? 

He does not allow himself to dwell on that any longer, taking both the thought and the memory and burying them as deep as he can into the back of his mind. _His_ mind. He has dominion over it, and if he does not wish to think on these things further, then he will merely think on something else. 

Anything else. 

_”What have you done?”_

This is not any better. 

_”Come now Celebrimbor, be reasonable. I have only come to collect what is mine.”_

Perhaps he was too hasty, dismissing memories of orcs so quickly. In fact, he would rather like to return to that. It was his first real taste of torture, but he had learned many things from Melkor in his time. He simply needs to reevaluate and reorganize his thoughts. Strip away his original emotional response and reflect on what had happened from where he is today, rather than who he was at the time. 

_”I thought we were friends.”_

He is beginning to grow tired of this. 

_”You were mistaken.”_

Enough. 

He wrenches back control by digging his fingernails into the skin of his arm until the discomfort turns to a sharp pain. The effect is desirable, at least, as the traitorously disorganized thoughts quiet, then fade away as he increases the pressure. Soon it is just him again, sitting in the bottom of a boat, feeling the ship rise and fall with each crest and trough of the waves upon the sea. 

Just him, breathing quietly in the darkness.

He does not release his grip on his own arm. Not yet.

A noise from outside the cell draws him out of his thoughts. Wood creaks quietly, slowly, with several seconds in between each squeak indicating slow, deliberate motions. He can still hear the muffled noises and scuffled steps above, but this new sound is different than that. 

Someone is treading down the stairs.

Mairon opens his eyes slowly. It is late in the evening now, and the moon outside casts little light in through the porthole. What small amount there is falls in a silvery beam on the floor, which sways and stretches with each motion of the boat. Khamul is still seated beside him, though at this point he has managed to worm himself into the corner proper, and has his head leaning to one side in a slightly awkward motion that still allows him to slumber sitting upright, knees tucked in close to his chest and arms crossed over them. 

In the adjacent corner, Angmar has drawn his cloak up around himself as a blanket, and has tucked one of his arms beneath his head so that his upper arm serves as a pillow. His back is still turned towards the center of the room, so Mairon cannot truly tell if he is sleeping or merely sulking. However, given Angmar’s propensity to babble when he is awake over nearly anything, Mairon is inclined to believe he is actually resting.

Neither stir from the quiet footsteps inching down the steps.

It is curious that they both choose to sleep in the farthest corners of the cell from the door, rather than in opposite corners from another, as he would have expected. Perhaps, neither felt truly comfortable resting so close to the door, and instead decided that the known threat of each other was far better than the unknown threat of the soldiers above.

Mairon himself is content to sit perfectly still as the noise continues, drawing closer until, at last, a figure creeps into view. On the other side of the bars, a soldier appears, carefully balancing three trays of food upon both of his arms. Moving slowly and as quietly as he can, the soldier slowly crouches down to place the trays upon the floor, just outside of the cell. 

Mairon can practically see the unease in the air, radiating off of the man like heat from a fire. There is clearly an attempt for stealth with each attempt slow and cautious. With each clink of the trays or unnecessary sound, he winces and his eyes glance up nervously, like he is fearful of waking anyone within the cell. 

Mairon watches patiently, but even as the seconds pass no other men walk down the stairs to join the soldier. With Angmar and Khamul asleep, the two of them are, for all purposes alone. 

Well. There is no time to start like the present.

“Thank you,” He murmurs from where he is sitting, careful to keep his voice soft and sweet. Even so, the soldier flinches and quickly stands, the trays of food left at his feet in his haste to rise. “I feared we had been forgotten.” 

“Yes well,” The soldier sputters and _oh he was nervous_. **Good**. He can’t quite keep the amusement out of his eyes when the man slowly kneels back down amongst the trays. “Nobody really wanted to come down here. They’re all busy celebrating upstairs.”

“Ah, in that case, my apologies for distracting you from your festivities,” Mairon replies gently, trying to sound sincere in a way that he not truly is. He tilts his head slightly to the side, watching as the smaller door is unlocked and opened outward on a swinging hinge that allows the soldier to pass the three trays of food into the cell without ever opening the door. Oh, how very clever. 

“Someone has to do it I guess,” The soldier is continuing, “And my work shift doesn’t end for for another few hours anyway so….” He trails off as Mairon slowly stands and crosses the length of the cell.

“I understand,” Mairon replies, stopping just shy of the bars to crouch down and pick up one of the bowls of food from one of the trays. He has no idea what it is exactly sloshing about within the container, but he smiles all the same. “In that case, you have both my apologies for startling you, and my thanks for the food.”

“Uh…You’re welcome? Anyway…I should return to work.”

“Farewell,” Mairon replies with a warm smile, taking the spoon from the bowl with a hand and giving the food within a stir, as if he is about to eat. “It was lovely speaking with you. I hope you return soon.” 

He watches the little soldier scamper out of view, fleeing back up the steps much faster than he descended down them. It is only after he is gone that Mairon’s lips curl down into a slight frown and he casts a glance towards the bowl he is holding with distaste. He spares a brief thought to the porthole, then pauses and makes his way back towards the corner where he had been sitting instead.

“Khamul,” He waits just long enough for his servant’s eyes to flicker open- _expression still lax from sleep, slowly morphing into exhausted confusion as he rouses from his slumber_ -before he shoves the bowl under his nose. “Eat this.” Khamul jerks his head back in surprise quickly, too quickly, and there is a loud **crack**. A moment later, Khamul is left awkwardly trying to cradle the back of his head where he had slammed it against the wall behind him and with each movement the chains binding his wrists together clink together. 

“I know you do not require sleep like the rest of us,” Khamul grouses, still recovering from his sudden lurch back into consciousness and the self-inflicted blow that followed, “But was this truly important enough to wake me for?”

“Are you implying that I would disturb your rest for frivolous things?” Mairon asks, and offers the bowl once more, nudging it closer to Khamul’s face. 

“Yes.”

“Yes…?”

“Yes, my lord,” Khamul replies with a raise of his eyebrow and a cheeky smile, but he accepts the bowl anyway. He eyes the food within suspiciously, and gives the bowl an experimental small shake to watch the thick liquid inside slosh around. Miraculously, nothing spills. 

“Hm,” Mairon hums in lack of a real response, but takes a seat alongside him all the same. “Eat your food, Khamul.” Khamul pointedly lifts the spoon and takes an exaggerated bite, only for his face to immediately scrunch up. 

“It’s rather bland,” He comments a moment later, eyeing the bowl with a frown and giving it another cautious shake, as if movement may infuse the food with some flavor it is lacking.

“Does it not meet your standards? I am surprised, I thought out of all of the Nine you would have the lowest when it came to such things.”

“Perhaps I just do not like Numenorean food. It is not as though Angmar cooks, so I have never tasted it before.” Khamul takes another thoughtful bite all the same, and after he has finished chewing he laughs quietly. “Imagine, Angmar _cooking_.” It is silent for a few moments in cell before Khamul sighs and looks away. “Right, right. I almost forgot you have never been inside of a kitchen either.”

“Your memory must be failing you, then, to forget something that has not changed in the hundreds of years you have known me. Regardless, there is an extra portion that needs to be eaten. Whether you or Angmar consumes it, I do not care. Just do not waste it.” 

“I said it is bland, not inedible,” Khamul retorts with another pointed spoonful. “Just pass me another bowl, and I shall eat it too.”

“I was unaware there was a difference,” Mairon responds blankly and Khamul barks out a laugh, nearly choking on the bite of food he had been about to take. He manages to recover though, and sets the spoon back down in the bowl.

“That is what you get for employing kings and lords,” Khamul points out. Mairon admittedly isn’t sure what he means by that-he has seen some downsides to employing royalty, certainly, but food specifically has not crossed his list-but the conversation is refreshing all the same. 

This is better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melkor: "You ever notice that our flashbacks are always really depressing."  
> Celebrimbor: "Maybe at some point we'll get enough of them to be added to the character list tag."  
> Melkor: "I wouldn't hold your breath."


	9. Chapter 9

The boat beneath him rocks.

It’s an unusual feeling that only intensifies as they sail further from the Haven of Umbar. In the port and even in the immediate waters beyond, the ocean was docile and calm, and the heaving of the ship barely noticeable. 

At some point, however, that changed. Likely as the ship broke free from the any extruding land masses that might shelter it from the high winds and waves of the Great Sea, though _when_ this occurred, Mairon cannot say.

Simply put, at some point he had noticed the heave of the wood around him, and once he was aware of the motion it became difficult to ignore it. 

Khamul stays true to his word, and, not long after finishing the first bowl of food starts to work on the second. He does not appear bothered much by the motion of the boat, but then again he has spent a larger period of time on the boat slumbering than he has awake. 

There is a rustle and shifting of fabric from nearby, and Mairon turns in response to the noise in time to see Angmar rise slowly, his arms lifting himself off of the bench until he is sitting instead of laying down. Each action is deliberate, and when he has finally shifted to sit upright with his knees curled under him he stretches his arms out and turns his head, blinking wearily at the two of them. 

A glance towards the porthole confirms what Mairon already knows; it is still evening out. 

“Someone brought food,” Khamul calls out, and Angmar grunts in response, nearly stumbling over his cloak as he rises and shuffles across the cell towards the trays. He stoops down to grasp at the remaining bowl of food and straightens up slowly, wearily, nearly spilling the food in the process. Angmar blinks slowly as he stirs the now-cold food, then lifts the spoon towards his mouth.

Before he can take a bite, however, Angmar’s fogginess seems to clear and he pauses, looking towards Khamul with a look Mairon can only describe as skeptical.

“Did you do something to it?” Angmar asks, slowly lowering the spoon back into the bowl and giving the food inside a cautious, more investigative stare.

“Like what?” Khamul retorts, and Mairon can hear the smile in his voice even without taking his eyes off of Angmar.

“This would hardly be the first time you tried to add something spicy to my food,” Angmar grumbles, and he spoons through the bowl quietly, as if looking for something that does not belong.

“Do you truly believe I just carry spice in my pockets to sprinkle in your food when you are not paying attention?” 

“I would not be surprised.”

“I have done nothing to your food,” Khamul replies in a way that very much suggests he _has_ done something, despite the fact Mairon knows for a fact that he has not touched any of the trays. 

Mairon remains silent anyway.

“One of these days, I shall do something to your food,” Angmar promises, and sniffs at the liquid as if that may reveal some kind of trickery that his eyes cannot see. 

“Like what?” Khamul asks, clearly amused at this point.

“Eat it,” Angmar retorts and Khamul laughs in turn, clearly not dissuaded by this ‘threat’. 

“I have done nothing,” Khamul repeats, letting his own bowl rest between his chest and his knees so that he can lift his hands in mock surrender. “If you do not believe me, you can ask our lord.”

For a moment, Mairon is tempted to speak. To bolster Khamul’s statement or sow discord, he cannot say for sure. The conversation has been amusing thus far even without his active participation, and spurring it forward could help to keep him entertained longer. 

But the moment Angmar turns and looks at him with a hopeful expression, Mairon immediately recalls his decision to ignore him until further notice. Mairon doubts he has learned his lesson, as he has uttered no apology nor even spoken of what happened. There is a great possibility that Angmar does not even _know_ what he has done wrong. 

His eyes narrow ever so slightly. 

Eventually, Mairon decides to hold his tongue. He pulls his gaze away from Angmar and looks towards the far wall instead, turning his head just slow enough to catch the distressed look that falls upon Angmar’s face. 

Silence falls.

“Well then,” Khamul says after a few moments. There is still a jovial twinge to his voice, but it seems more forced and unnatural now. “I stand by what I said. I have done nothing to your food.” As if to accent this, he takes another bite from his own bowl. 

Angmar does not speak, but his spoon rattles against the bowl for a moment. Apparently satisfied that his food has not been tampered with, sits upon the bench again. This time, however, he does not move back to his far corner near the back of the cell, adjacent to where Mairon is seated next to Khamul. No, instead he chooses to slump down in the opposite corner, one shoulder bumped up against the criss-crossed iron bars. 

It is a strange thing for sure, to see him so quiet and subdued. 

The silence returns.

\-----

By the time the sun rises and the silvered light of night is slowly replaced by the golden-yellow light of morning, the now-empty bowls have been stacked in a near pile atop the trays, which have been carefully placed just in front of the small, slotted door for easy retrieval. The clinking of silverware and shuffle of boots had been the only noise in the cell since Mairon decided to crush the blooming conversation underfoot last night. 

He does not regret his choice, even as his traitorous thoughts bubble up in the back of his mind. Angmar has yet to apologize, and Mairon has no intentions of letting him escape so easily.

Beside him, Khamul yawns next to him and shifts, working himself back into the corner and trying to find a comfortable position for his head to lean against the wall. He had not returned to sleep for the duration of the night, but now that the sun has risen he had apparently reached his limits. He crosses his arms over his knees so the chain dangles over his legs, shifts again, and within a few minutes of the sun’s rays intensifying Khamul has drifted back off into sleep.

Time passes. 

…

The dawn turns to morning. 

…

The beams of daylight upon the floor stretch, then wane as the sun begins to reach its crest overhead. 

…

Finally, some hours later, Khamul still asleep beside him, Mairon slowly rises and crosses the floor. He does not miss the way Angmar looks up to him hopefully, does not respond to it, and sits down next to him with a small sigh.

_What a generous person he is._

“Master, why you ignoring me?” Angmar asks quietly. Mairon is quiet in response, choosing to let the question settle as he decides the best way to approach the subject. This behavior was going to be something he needed to amend quickly, before they reached the island. This was not a conversation he wanted to have multiple times.

“Angmar,” Mairon says at last, breaching the silence between them without even looking at his servant. “Do you know _why_ I am upset with you?” 

“Is it because I keep accidentally melting swords trying to set them ablaze?”

It takes him a moment to actually process what Angmar says, primarily because he had anticipated- _incorrectly_ -that the time Angmar had spent brooding may have let him realize what his error was. Clearly, he was attributing an insightfulness to Angmar that he simply did not possess and, instead, his response catches him off guard. So much so that were he walking Mairon may have physically stumbled. 

He turns to stare at his servant blankly.

“… _What?_ ”

Surely, he must have misheard that.

“Never mind,” Angmar replies quickly, turning his head away. Mairon stares at him blankly, but he does not willingly offer up any further information, even after several moments have passed.

Well, that was going to be a conversation for later. 

“Allow me to rephrase” Mairon continues, pretending for now that he did not hear that particular snippet of information, “If you have a blade that has dulled, what do you do?”

“Ask for a new one?” Angmar responds, head tipping to one side innocently. 

“No.”

There is a long pause as Angmar tries to think, during which time Mairon cannot help but thing how many swords have been lost to either reckless fire or losing their bite. Perhaps someone was wise enough to take notice and reforge the iron. 

“Sharpen it?” Angmar suggests after a significantly longer period of time than it should have taken for him to come to that conclusion. Mairon hopes that there is not some pile of half melted, dulled swords accumulating somewhere at the foothills of Mount Doom. 

“Correct. You Nine are no mere servants, no more than that ring upon your finger is a mere trinket. You are my swords, and it is through you I enact my will upon the land. You are my…” 

_”Lieutenant.”_

“…Heralds,” Mairon continues, and the word does not fit like it should, and feels awkward on his tongue, but it shall do for now. “Now, Angmar, tell me. A dulled blade can be sharpened, but what use do I have for a blade that does not strike where I tell it?” 

Angmar stares blankly at him for a moment before a realization _at last_ dawns upon him. Immediately, he grimaces and looked away, eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched in obvious distaste and hate. 

“I could have killed him,” He grumbles. “I still can. If I see him again I’ll-“

“ _Enough_ ,” Marion snaps, cutting him off, and Angmar’s jaw clicks closed. Mairon forces his expression back to a more comfortable neutral. There is a beat of silence that passes between them, then an another, then he releases a sigh. He’d need a different approach. “Angmar, do you not trust me?”

“Of course I do, master!” Angmar exclaims and Mairon lifts a finger to his own mouth. Just because this conversation was not particularly sensitive did not mean he wanted it broadcasted to the entire ship. 

“Yet your actions say otherwise. When you undermine me, you undermine your own usefulness. If you continue like this, your use _less_ ness will outweigh your use _ful_ ness.” Mairon watches as Angmar’s face falls and his shoulder hunch over, folding in on himself. He appears deep in thought so Mairon leaves him be and turns his head to gaze back out of the cell. Angmar is useful, yes. There was a difference between merely being a nuisance and actually hindering Mairon’s plans. One was irritating, but pardonable. It was why so much of Khamul’s behavior was tolerated. But if Angmar became actively antagonistic to what Mairon wished to do, choosing violence even when his master desired subtly…

_He may need to reclaim his ring._

The thought makes something lurch inside of him. He had never given much thought to what would happen to one of the Nine if he reclaimed their ring from them. Each of them at this point had far extended their natural lifespan. What would happen, if what was preserving them was removed? 

**_Would you like to know?_ **

“My apologies,” Angmar murmurs beside him, and Mairon glances towards him. He is still despondent and somber but, at least they appear to be making progress. 

“Just do as I say,” Mairon replies quietly. “And I shall never need to dispose of you.” 

Thoughts of reclaiming the ring now are premature. His plan for Numenor worked in the end, did it not? For the better, even, when Angmar’s interference. Perhaps, if his behavior did not improve, it would be worth considering. But for now…

 ** _Would you like to know?_**

_Not yet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khamul: "My job here is done."  
> Mairon: "All you did make things awkward by trying to make me talk to someone I'm actively ignoring."  
> Khamul: *Goes to sleep*


	10. Chapter 10

The conversation with Angmar gradually dies down after that. Angmar appears to be thoughtful and reflective, which is as much as Mairon can ask of him at the moment. Trying to continue this conversation now will likely only cause him to grow confused and overwhelmed.

He does not anticipate that conversation will be the last they have on the subject. No, Angmar has always been headstrong and stubborn and easily rebounds from scoldings of all kinds. This is going to require an ongoing effort to ensure Angmar does not regularly disobey him so obviously, and ensuring that he does not further complicate things when they do arrive in Numenor. 

Soon, he is also going to need to ensure that Angmar acts properly quelled and humbled before the king. In the next few days, for certain. It is a conversation he’ll need to have with Khamul as well, though likely much more briefly. In fact, he cannot imagine that conversation with Khamul will take more than a minute or two at the most, and it will likely never have to be revisited.

Khamul was always more subtle than the others, and while Mairon had allowed his tongue to grow sharper and bolder since coming into his servant, he does not doubt Khamul can hold back and be polite when he desires to. Or, rather, when he is ordered to do so. 

Angmar, on the other hand, often disregarded direct orders over things he perceived to be insulting. Not to himself, no, but insults aimed at his master seemed to cause the most intense and violent reactions. That was something they were going to need to work on, as well as determining what other triggers he potentially had and how to ensure he ignored them.

Wood creaks. Slowly, but not as slowly as before, and much closer to the bars now Mairon can hear the quiet rattle of wooden bowls ratting on silvered trays accompanying the sound of footsteps descending down the stairs. 

It is still late morning.

Breakfast, then.

Mairon is delighted when the same soldier comes into view. He is still wary, but his footsteps are somewhat bolder and swifter than before. 

The same soldier delivering food makes things easier. 

“Hello again,” Mairon calls softly, sweetly, and the soldier does flinch at that and his eyes flicker to where Mairon is seated in surprise. He clearly had not been expecting Mairon to be seated so close to the cell door, but he saw little reason to move back to the depths of the cell following his conversation with Angmar. Beside him, still seated between the bars of the cell and himself, Mairon can feel Angmar bristle. The soldier recovers quickly enough, and sets the trays upon the floor to organize them. Mairon catches sight of some assortment of food within, but he cannot- _nor cares not_ -to identify what it is. 

He’ll just make Khamul or Angmar eat his share, anyway.

“Hello,” The solider responds, cautiously. Hm. He seems a bit more apprehensive now, for some reason. Perhaps it is the fact that Angmar is awake as well. There is a click as the latch to the lower door is opened, and the soldier draws in a sharp breath before he quickly opens it, grabs ahold of the trays, and drags them out into the hallway quickly. 

The door swings shut. 

Nothing catastrophic happens. 

The soldier breaths a sigh of relief. 

Mairon smiles pleasantly. 

“Did you rest well?” Mairon asks, as if he cares. He slowly rises from where he is sitting and walks the short distance to stand on the other side of the small door.

“Uh, I guess,” The soldier responds awkwardly. “We have hammocks.”

“How quaint,” Mairon replies, silently making a note to ask Angmar what a hammock is at a later date. “I am glad.”

“Mmm.”

There is no response beyond that for some time as the soldier sorts through the trays, then glances up at him cautiously. When Mairon only smiles, he reluctantly pushes the small door open again and slides the trays into the cell, where they come to rest at Mairon’s feet. 

“You have my thanks,” Mairon states, but does not immediately stoop down to grab a bowl. “Once again, that is. If you did not come down here, I fear we may have starved.”

“You’re welcome,” The soldier murmurs quietly. A bit _too_ quietly. Perhaps it was time to be a bit bolder. He was trying to be polite, but idle conversation was not getting him where he wanted just yet.

“Do I make you nervous?” Mairon asks, tilting his head to one side innocently. “If so, I apologize. I am not intending to do so.”

“Not really,” The soldier replies and looks away. _Liar_. Mairon does not correct him. “It’s just a little strange, you know? I mean, you used to be an important king or something and now-“

Hands suddenly grasp at his arms, and his world tips and spins. For a brief moment everything is blurred, and when his vision clears everything has changed. He is no longer looking towards the bars and the Numenorean soldier beyond. No, his eyes are now focused towards the back of the cell, where Khamul is slumped against the wall, sleeping. He can see the porthole and the light of the late morning shining through, which is curious because he had not deliberately turned away from the soldier mid-conversation.

“Do not talk to my master like that,” Angmar growls, and Mairon blinks before he realizes that it was _Angmar’s_ hands upon his arms, Angmar who physically spun him around to face the other way, and Angmar who is now staring towards the soldier. 

“O-okay?” The soldier squeaks and has gathered up the trays and scurried away before Mairon can even hope to rectify the situation. He scampers up the stairs quickly and without any kind of preamble, vanishing out of sight before Mairon can stop him. 

He sucks in a breath.

_Alright then._.

He exhales.

Mairon removes himself from Angmar’s grip easily, turns on the spot, and physically restrains himself from smashing his skull through the ship’s hull. 

_Again_.

And oh, he is tempted. He wants to cast Angmar through the floor, punch him square through the side of the hull, snap his neck beneath his foot. He cannot even try to punch him _gently_ because right now he likely cannot control his strength if he does try to do so, and he still has no desire to drown in the sea below. 

“Be polite,” Mairon says instead, and pokes a finger against Angmar’s chest with each word to punctuate them. Forcibly, enough that Angmar actually flinches a little each time Mairon’s nail jabs against his skin. It is as close as he can get to physical violence at the moment without potentially sinking the boat. “That is an order,” He adds, when Angmar looks like he might argue the issue further.

"He was insulting you," Angmar complains.

"Did I ask you to strike him?" Mairon counters and Angmar's jaw snaps shut, clearly recalling their prior conversation. Good, it only occurred a short time ago. Mairon would be concerned if Angmar had _already_ forgotten what they had discussed.

Fortunately, Angmar only holds his irritated expression for a short time before he deflates with a sigh. 

“Alright,” He grouses, crossing his arms over his chest. “I shall try, master.”

“No, you _will_ be polite,” Mairon corrects pointedly. “If I allow you to escape with only _trying_ to be polite, you shall show up at my door asking for assistance in hiding the body of someone you thought was insulting me, with the excuse that you are _trying very hard_ , and does that not count for something?”

“I would not!” Angmar protests immediately, but he breaks under the skeptical look Mairon gives him after only a few seconds. “I would have asked Khamul,” He mutters, like that makes it any better. Mairon makes another silent note to ask Khamul if this is a frequent pattern for them, and if he has any knowledge of that sword business Angmar mentioned earlier.

“Allow me to be more specific, then,” Mairon says, feeling very tempted to rub his temples. Is this a headache? It certainly feels like one. “You will behave yourself. You will not threaten anyone. You will strive to be nice to others, no matter their rank or station. You will not harm others.” Angmar looks like he might protest _that_ as well, but Mairon crosses his arms and stares at him blankly.

“…Very well,” Angmar eventually relents with a sigh. He looks….disappointed, perhaps? Dejected? It is hard to say exactly what the expression on his face is, but still Mairon doubts this is the last conversation they will have on the subject before he is satisfied by Angmar’s behavior. 

Still, he cannot have him running about and intimidating others. Or worse, killing them. 

He was not lying to Khamul when he stated that simple plans were sometimes better. They allowed for more flexibility and adaption, but they also allowed for expansion on ideas. So far, his plan for Numenor was quite simple. He would stoke the king’s pride like a fire until it blazed and raged, and he claimed the entire world under one banner. Then, Mairon would claim the world from him in turn. 

Of course, this was where the details had to be fussed somewhat. Unfortunately, encouraging the king’s pride would require getting close to him, which would be a difficult thing to do from a prison. He would need to elevate his status from hostage to reach the king’s ear. 

The first option was offering knowledge. This suited elves well enough in the past, bringing him close enough to whisper into the ears of Celebrimbor, _but_ it was done in disguise. The king knew who he was already, and may be skeptical of any knowledge offered frivolously. Mairon still had difficulty trying to discern if he was smarter than he seemed, or if he was truly a fool, which made this plan especially difficult to plot. 

So. 

The second option was simpler, so much so that he had already begun. There was no harm to his flattery, after all, and even small, kind words whispered into the right ears could mean a sooner period of time when the shackles would eventually be removed from his wrists and he would be permitted to move freely. He’d need to earn the friendship of the peoples, their trust, and eventually their loyalty.

Therefor, it was very, very important than Angmar _did not harm anyone_. It would be very hard to play nice with the Men of Numenor if Angmar kept trying to strangle them for speaking with him. Or speaking ill of him. Or looking at him. 

Or, frankly, whatever it was that caused Angmar to decide to cause a ruckus. Half of the time he could not tell what set him off.

Minds could be changed. _Dead_ minds, however, were quite impossible to influence, and people tended to act affronted when their family members perished.

Mairon stares at Angmar for a moment longer before he stalks the short distance to the bars, stoops down, grabs ahold of two of the bowls, and shoves them both against Angmar’s chest. 

“Eat these,” Mairon orders. “Both of them, if you would.” Angmar gives him a confused look, but accepts both bowls without protest. He sets one down upon the bench for later, then dutifully takes a bite of the one still within his hands. 

“Why not just tell them not to bring three portions?” He asks in between mouthfuls. At least he has the decency not to speak with his mouth open.

_”Are you alright, master?”_

_”Are you alright, my lord?”_

“I am taking advantage of the nature of your kind’s nature,” Mairon replies, tilting his head to the side. It had only taken deviation from his normal schedule, and both Khamul and Angmar had become horribly sentimental. He doubted that some Numenorean would understand that he did not _have_ to eat, and Mairon is curious how the little soldier would respond to a sudden deviation from what he has come to expect.

“I do not think I understand.”

“No, I suppose you do not.”

“…Are you going to tell me?”

“Eat your food.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angmar: "But master, he said you _used_ to be an important king! He was clearly being insulting!"  
> Mairon: "If you bark at everyone who says anything to me, I'm going to muzzle you."


	11. Chapter 11

“I feel ill.”

Time had passed uneventfully in the hold. It is late in the afternoon when Khamul awakens again, and though he does not rise and only shifts briefly. It is unsurprising he does not take to pacing the cell like Angmar given the state of his injuries, and several more hours pass in relative silence before Khamul utters the three words without preamble. 

“Do you mean your condition has worsened?” Mairon asks immediately, turning to look at him. At some point, Khamul has crossed his arms over his stomach, letting the chain dangle across his abdomen, and has taken to sitting with his back and head flat against the bench, his knees bent slightly. His mouth is pressed into a thin, uncomfortable line.

“Condition?” Angmar asks innocently, as if he is unaware of Khamul’s injuries that he himself caused, “What is wrong with you?”

Actually, there is a very reasonable chance that Angmar does not know. 

“No, this feels different,” Khamul complains, ignoring Angmar’s words, “Like the sickness of my younger years, thought it has been some time since I experienced that. Not since before the ring, I suppose.” 

“Condition?” Angmar repeats, and Mairon waves him off with a hand, standing up and crossing to where Khamul sits to look at him more closely. He does not appear to be bleeding, though his complexion does appear slightly off. Paler, perhaps?

“How so?” 

“I feel….uneasy,” Khamul replies, squeezing his eyes shut for a few moments. “Dizzy, even though I am in the shadows.” His nose scrunches up as the ship rocks beneath them, and his arms crossed over his stomach press into his skin a little. “Nauseous.”

“And you are certain is not from your injuries?” Mairon prompts, ignoring Angmar’s questioning noise from behind him once more. 

“No, the pain has been improving some.”

“Then you cannot think of anything that may have brought this on?”

“Khamul,” Angmar interrupts finally, taking a step forward to actually join the conversation instead of merely standing a few paces back parroting words until someone payed him mind. When Mairon glances at him, he finds an amused expression upon Angmar’s face. “Are you… _seasick_?”

“Seasick?” Khamul and Mairon echo at the same time. Angmar’s amusement practically radiates off of him, now with a touch of smugness. 

“Have you never sailed before?” Angmar asks instead of elaborating. His head tilts to one side inquisitively, but that underlying amusement and smugness that has Mairon gazing at him with the flattest look he can muster.

“I will admit, this is my first time on a boat,” Khamul replies with a grimace. 

“Truly?”

“I grew up in a desert,” Khamul huffs, and his hands cross over his stomach as he fixes Angmar with an equally flat look that was clearly learned from Mairon. “There are not many seas to be sailed upon when you are surrounded by sand. So yes, this _is_ my first time.”

“Well, this hardly counts as a first time sailing,” Angmar says, shaking his head. “We are all trapped in a room together, and you cannot even go on deck to enjoy the sun. We are not sailing we are….cargo, if anything.”

“I do not think that the sun would _improve_ this sensation at all,” Khamul complains, and the implication of this statement clearly goes over Angmar’s head. 

“The wind smells different on the seas,” Angmar says instead, “Being trapped in the hull is no way to spend a voyage.” 

“Regardless- _Seasick _?” Mairon prompts, sensing this conversation will spiral if left unchecked. He also has never heard of this phenomenon, and likewise has not spent much-if any-time sailing. In his early days he simply had no need to, and after openly joining Melkor’s cause, it would have been suicidal to try to openly venture into Ulmo’s territory.__

__He was not a fool. Were it not for the fact this ship housed humans, which Ulmo found very darling, he would already be pinned to the bottom of the ocean under a torrent of water._ _

__“Yes well. Sometimes sailing upon the seas causes people to take ill.” Angmar thinks about this for a few moments before shrugging. “There is no real disease,” He adds. “Returning to dry land resolves it within a few minutes, possibly hours at most.”_ _

__“And if we cannot return to dry land immediately?” Khamul asks quietly._ _

__“It can take anywhere from a few hours to a days to get your ‘sea legs’, as it were.” Khamul looks downright distressed at this news. Possibly even more distressed than he did about his still very much present physical injuries. “Perhaps even longer. Some people avoid the water entirely because they are particularly prone to illness.”_ _

__Was this _seasickness_ really so unbearable? _ _

__…If he could learn how to inflict it upon others, it could be a useful instrument for torture._ _

__“And how long is the trip from Umbar to Numenor?” Khamul asks. “When I took the journey last, it took nearly three weeks,” Angmar replies thoughtfully, and Khamul’s dismay is obvious at this news, even without his fatigued groan._ _

__“Is it lethal?” Mairon asks thoughtfully. If it was lethal, then it would not be of much use to him as there were other, more painful methods of inflicting death upon others. If it was not lethal it would be much more useful if he could learn how to copy the effects, without actually requiring the use of boats._ _

__Oh yes, and if it was lethal he need to ensure that Khamul would be fine._ _

__“Not that I am aware of, master,” Angmar replies. Which means likely not._ _

__“Unfortunate,” Khamul groans from the side and Angmar, clearly content to tease him further, crouches down beside where he lays on the bench, and prods his shoulder with a finger._ _

__“You look quite pale,” Angmar comments. Khamul opens an eye to stare at him for a moment before he closes them again, expression pinched._ _

__“If you think that if I throw up I will not aim for you, you are wrong.”_ _

__Angmar wisely retreats after that._ _

__\-----_ _

__Angmar is ultimately banished to the back of the cell._ _

__It is unrelated to Khamul, who has grown quiet and resigned to his fate after stealing Angmar’s cloak to use as a blanket. No, rather, Mairon exiled him away from the bars of the cell because after his last interaction with the soldier, he simply did not trust him not to be rash again._ _

__It is easier to ensure that Angmar does not react poorly if he is not so close to the conversation in the first place._ _

__“Hello,” Mairon calls, later that evening, when the sailor returns, treading cautiously down the stairs, holding three new trays in his hands._ _

__“Mhm.”_ _

__Two steps forward, three steps back. Oh well, he had days to regain that trust as long as Angmar managed to keep his mouth shut. Prematurely sending him as far from the room as possible was a good idea, as Mairon can already practically feel Angmar’s gaze burning holes into the back of his head._ _

__“I would like to apologize for the behavior of my companion,” He continues, not deterred by the lack of response from the sailor. The Numenorean reaches the bars but carefully sticks to the back of the wall, gazing skeptically into the cell. “I spoke with him,” Mairon continues pleasantly. “He feels quite remorseful.”__

__“Mmm.”_ _

__This was going to be a bit harder than he anticipated._ _

__There’s a shuffle as the soldier opens the door to retrieve the old, dirty dishes then quickly pushes the door open again to slide three new trays into the door. With Khamul still feeling quite poorly, it was going to be up to Angmar to eat all three servings._ _

__The soldier quietly collects the trays, stands up, and retreats quickly towards the stairs._ _

__“Thank you,” Mairon calls softly after his retreating form._ _

__There is no response._ _

__

__\-----_ _

__“Hello.”_ _

__“Hm.”_ _

__“I appreciate the food. You have my thanks, yet again.”_ _

__“…You’re welcome.”_ _

__\-----_ _

__“Hello again.”_ _

__“Ah, uh… Hello.”_ _

__“How are you feeling today? I hope they are not working you too hard. You always leave so quickly, I hope they are letting you rest.”_ _

__“I-I’m alright._ _

__“I am glad to hear it. Take care to take care of yourself.”_ _

__\-----_ _

__“Hello.”_ _

__“Hello.”_ _

__“Thank you for the food. I cannot stress how appreciative I am of your efforts.”_ _

__“It’s just my job. It’s really no trouble.”_ _

__“I can still appreciate you for a job well done, then.”_ _

__“You’re welcome, then.”_ _

__\-----_ _

__“You know, this is my first time upon a ship.”_ _

__“Really? I would have thought you were well travelled. What, with being a king and all.”_ _

__“Oh yes, by foot and by horse and sometimes even dragon back. Never a ship, though.”_ _

__“ _Dragon_ back? That sounds extraordinary. What was that like?”_ _

__“Windy.”_ _

__“I guess it is similar to sailing, then.”_ _

__“I would not know. Perhaps one day I shall be permitted on deck, but until then I can only imagine.”_ _

__\-----_ _

__“It is rather dull, here. What do you normally do for fun on a ship?”_ _

__“Work, mostly.”_ _

__“That does not sound like much fun.”_ _

__“It isn’t, I guess. It does keep my occupied, though.”_ _

__“What do you do if you are not working, then?”_ _

__“Well, sometimes we’ll party and drink. Play games. There isn’t much else to do.”_ _

__“Drink what?”_ _

__“Ale, mostly.”_ _

__…_ _

__“Don’t tell me you’ve never had _ale_.”_ _

__“Alright, I won’t tell you then.”_ _

__“Ha ha. I’ll try to sneak you down some with your next meal. Just…if anyone asks it wasn’t from me, alright?”_ _

__“Of course. As always, you have my thanks.”_ _

__\-----_ _

__True enough, with the next meal there is an additional cup which contains some pale liquid which smells quite foul. When he sniffs it, something in his expression must change because the little soldier grins and chuckles._ _

__"I suppose I cannot hope it tastes better than it smells," Mairon responds dryly, and gives the cup a cautionary swirl. It _bubbles_. Oh my, Men drink this?_ _

__"No chance of that," The soldier replies, gathering up the dirty trays once more. "I have to return to work before someone thinks to check on me. I'll just pick that up in the morning, alright?"_ _

__"Very well," Mairon responds. "You have my thanks."_ _

"As you are so fond of telling me." 

__He waits until the footsteps retreat back up the stairs before his smile falls away into a more neutral, blank expression. He turns sharply, walks to the far corner of the cell, and shoves the cup against Angmar's chest._ _

__"Drink this." He has no intention of consuming something which smells that foul, and with Khamul still feeling _seasick_ even after these few days, it falls to Angmar to continue to eat whatever gifts the little soldier feels inclined to bring him. _ _

__"As you wish, master."_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khamul: "Hey, why am I always the one who gets sick or injured?"  
> Mairon: "Even if Angmar lost an arm he probably would not notice. I think he is injured equally as often as you, he just tends to ignore it. After all, I threw him into a wall and he did not complain."  
> Khamul: "Are you saying I am a drama queen?"  
> Mairon: "Yes."  
> Angmar: "Yes."  
> The soldier: "Yes"  
> Eru: "Yes"  
> Khamul: "Point taken."


	12. Chapter 12

So the game continues.

Twice a day, the little soldier returns to collect the dishes and provide new food, which is passed to Angmar, and occasionally Khamul when he feels willing to eat. Mairon is cordial and amiable, and with some careful prodding he has managed to not just sustain polite conversation with the soldier, but also gradually ease his comfort until the soldier feels comfortable enough to even joke and laugh. Mairon does not always understand what _exactly_ he is referring to, but he smiles a bit deeper when it seems appropriate.

Sometimes, the soldier sneaks gifts in, with their meals. Small things, like a piece of bread, a few slices of preserved meat, a cup of wine.

Angmar, at least, no longer glares from the corner. Mairon silently notes that apparently he can be bribed into good behavior with food. It was not a method he attempted in the past, but it may be worthwhile to consider.

He learns new information as well about their destination, things that he cannot learn from Angmar because he simply did not know or because his information is outdated. 

Some things he learns are useless. The soldier has two siblings. The food dish they are served at dinner has some long name he immediately forgets. 

Some things are useful. The elvish tongue had been forbidden in Numenor by the rule of a king of the past. The prior king had attempted to amend this, but many Numenoreans still held bitter feelings towards elves in general. Even the little soldier had made some off-hand, casual gesture about living forever before suddenly cutting himself off.

 _”Oh, sorry,” The little soldier had exclaimed, head tilted to one side as if noticing Mairon’s ears for the first time. “I should have guessed, actually. I mean you’re very pretty and-“_

_”I am not an elf,” Mairon had corrected, just a little sharper than he should have, but had not offered up an explanation past that. To do so would mean trying to explain that elves did not invent pointed ears, actually, and that while he could change his shape as he wished, he saw no reason to subject himself to looking more like Men, just like he saw no reason to subject himself to looking more like a dwarf._

_”Oh. Oh!” The soldier had nodded, scratching his chin in thought. “Yeah, some of the kings of the past had pointed ears, I think! Something about the first king. I don’t remember, I didn’t pay much mind in class when I was younger.”_

_Silently, Mairon had realized that if ever decided to try to teach Men how to make rings of power, he would not even need to disguise himself. Apparently, some of them could not recognize him for what he was even when he was their prisoner, with two of his highest profile servants sitting behind him._

“You said your friend was seasick, right?” The soldier asks on the end of their seventh day of voyage. His hands-unrestrained by shackles, slip through the bars for the first time to drop a small leather pouch in Mairon’s hands. His hands do not retreat immediately either, silently speaking volumes about how much his confidence and comfort has grown with Mairon’s careful tending. Instead, the soldier lets them relax against the bars slightly, limply hanging within the confines of the cell. “Here.”

“What is it?” Mairon asks softly, a finger pulling at the string of the pouch. Inside are a collection of dulled purple and green…leaves? He tilts his head to the side and dips a finger within the pouch to prod at them, finding them unusually brittle and hard to the touch. _How curious_.

“Dried lavender and mint,” The soldier responds in a low whisper. “I stole some from the stores. Smelling pleasant things can help, or so I’ve been told.”

“Ah.” Mairon nods and lifts the bag to his face, giving it a cautious smell. It is…floral and aromatic, and almost pleasant in a completely different way than the pleasant smell of sulfur and brimstone from Mount Doom, or the metallic bite of metal. No flowers grew in Mordor. Even while the soil of the volcano was fertile, plant-life tended to wither and die quickly in his presence. 

_”What is that strange smell?”_

_”…You mean flowers, Annatar? The grass? Have you spent too long in the forges that you’ve forgotten what spring smells like?”_

“Well,” Mairon continues, closing the bag carefully, and the fragmented memory of a conversation is cut off at the same time. “You-“

“Have your thanks?” The soldier finishes with a cheeky grin that reminds him of Khamul, and Mairon has to suppress the urge to prompt him to add _my lord_ to the end of his decision. “I know.”

“You’re very kind,” Mairon murmurs, giving him a small smile in turn. Then, for an additional emotional leverage, he leans forward slightly, lets his hand gently brush against the soldier’s then loosely grasps his hands. He keeps his head down deliberately, mostly because he does not want to risk making the wrong expression and ruining the moment. Sometimes, these tender things still escape him. “Your mother would be proud.”

“…Yeah,” The soldier murmurs, but there’s a waver in his voice that wasn’t there before. “I guess she would be.”

It is quiet, for a few moments, before the soldier slowly pulls his hand away. There’s a very obvious reluctance there, but the hands slip back to the other side of the bars all the same. 

“There is a storm coming,” The soldier murmurs. “We should only skirt the edge, but the waves will be larger and rougher. If your friend has a poor time, let me know. I will see what I can do.” 

Damn, he’s already offered his gratitude. It would be strange to say it again, so soon, especially with the soldier clearly knowing what he had intended to say and finishing his words before he could. He needs something else. 

There’s a delay that he hopes the little soldier does not notice before he eventually decides, and lets his own hands slip through the bars. He cannot put them nearly as far through, since the shackles around his wrists clang awkwardly against the bars, but it is enough that his fingers are able to hang loosely in a mimicry of what the soldier had done only moments before. There’s a small, careful smile on his face and he tips his head slightly. 

“Thank you.”

The soldier beams back at him, bright and innocent and naive. His hands move to gently grasp Mairon’s fingers, but a sudden yell from above has him jerking his hands back and looking towards the stairwell.

“I have to go,” He whispers softly, urgently, quickly kneeling down to gather the rest of the trays. 

“Goodbye,” Mairon calls after him as he scurries up the steps, but hears no response from the retreating form. 

He watches him leave until his feet vanish at the top of the steps, then his gaze lingers for a moment longer. Finally, he pulls his hands back through the bars once more, and turns his gaze back towards the occupants of the cell.

Angmar has already fallen asleep at some point, and Khamul has not yet woken up from his rest. At some point they had fallen into a rhythm where Khamul rests during the day, and Angmar rests during the evenings. It has worked out thus far for ensuring they do not butt heads too frequently, with meal times being one of the few overlaps. 

This time, however, it seemed Angmar had preemptively fallen asleep. 

When he approaches Khamul to rouse him first, he finds his eyes are already open, staring up towards the ceiling. Hm. 

“How long have you been awake?” Mairon asks, and Khamul’s eyes drift towards him.

“Not long,” Khamul mutters, and Mairon extends the small bag of dried herbs, dropping it unceremoniously on Khamul’s chest, just below his neck.

“Here. The soldier brought this for you.”

“What is it?”

“Dried herbs. Apparently, smelling them can help to relieve your seasickness. “

“You always call him ‘the soldier’,” Khamul points out belatedly, but moves his hands to grasp at the bag and brings it close to his face so he can smell it. “Does he have a name?”

“Almost certainly.”

“…Did you ask for it?”

“Almost certainly not.” 

Khamul rolls his eyes at that, but tugs the string of the bag open to peer at the insides. He pulls out a small pinch of pale purple and green leaves, and rolls them between his fingers so they crumple into pleasant-smelling shards. Mairon has no idea how true the soldier’s statement was about smells and seasickness, but he also sees no reason to withhold the bag from Khamul.

After all, there is likely no harm in it. He doubts the soldier has a malicious bone in his body.

“That was mean,” Khamul says, after a moment of silence, and it takes Mairon a moment to realize what he is referring to.

“So you _were_ awake,” Mairon states instead of responding directly. He crosses his arms as he regards Khamul blankly for a moment, then two. “You have never given much mind to my tactics in the past. What has brought this on?”

“Truly?” Khamul asked, slowly shifting his hands to one side and uses them as support to inch himself up into a seated position. It takes a few moments, but even when he is done his thoughtful expression is pointedly _not_ turned towards Mairon. “I am unsure.” There’s a moment of silence before a more familiar, deflective smile touches his features. “Perhaps Angmar’s jealousy is rubbing off on me, and I am worried that you plan on giving him a ring.”

“I hardly go about giving rings to anyone who asks,” Mairon replies pointedly. What use would some sailor be to him? Even if he did have a ring to spare, it would be _very_ unlikely to fall into the hands of someone so young and naive. Khamul turns to look at him, finally, and his expression is nearly indecipherable. His previous words were soft and quiet as not to disturb Angmar, but when he speaks again it is so deathly quiet that he nearly cannot hear it over the creak of the wood and the ever-present chattering of voices above, or the sound of the waves slapping the side of the ship.

“You gave one to me.” 

“I did.” 

A silence passes between them. 

It spans like a crevice, deep and vast. Khamul’s expression reveals nothing, which is even more frustrating because he cannot deflect well if he does not know what Khamul is thinking. 

_Sentiment,_ Mairon thinks bitterly. He cannot seem to escape it.

“I was not a king,” Khamul points out, as if somehow he had managed to deceive everyone with some clever plot, and Mairon tilts his head to the side. Is _that_ what this was about? 

“No, you were not,” Mairon agrees. “That much was obvious from the start.” He takes this moment to sit down on the bench next to him, now resigned to a conversation a few hundred years in the making, apparently. “You became one, though.”

“With help.”

“I was hardly involved,” Mairon responds idly, inspecting his nails as if they would grow without his permission. There is not even a speck of dirt under them, despite the days trek to Umbar from Mordor.

“You were a little involved,” Khamul replies, and there’s a flash of gold as he gestures with his hand, as if to show off the ring resting there. As if somehow Mairon forgot his own creation, and who he had given it to. Or maybe he is merely attempting to show off, which is a humorous thought because the Master Ring still sits upon Mairon's own finger.

“Are you saying I am lying?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes…?”

The tense atmosphere is broken with the sound of Khamul’s laughter.

“Yes, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soldier: "I've been thinking about it for a little bit...how come I don't get a name?"  
> Ar-Pharazon: "Do you suppose it's worse to not have a name at all, or to have your name constantly forgotten? I'm at least a tagged character, I think I deserve a little better than this."  
> The soldier: "Yeah but at this point I think I've actually appeared MORE than you. You're just...doing king stuff in the ship, I guess? Actually, wait a minute. What HAVE you been doing this whole time?"  
> Ar-Pharazon: "Listening to Shiny from Moana on repeat. Counting my gold. King stuff."


	13. Chapter 13

So. With a bit of quick thinking he had been able to avoid delving too deeply into _that_ particular conversation, at least for a while longer. He had not escaped it completely, but a half-formed conversation was far better than an actual conversation. Apparently, both Khamul and Angmar were prone to fits of moodiness when trapped in a room for a long time. At least Angmar’s conversation was about his usefulness, but it was not that much better than his conversations with Khamul. Tedious, all of them were. 

The paperwork would almost be better. 

Mairon did not know _why_ either one feels particularly inspired to bring their emotional turmoils to him. He cares very little, does not know how to adequately respond, and usually does his best to exorcise himself from the conversation as quickly as possible. It was strange to listen to them fuss about inconsequential things. Moreover, it gave him a headache.

Honestly, they would be better served moping about together. At least then he could ignore them and they could try to find the root of their problems by speaking with someone who more closely understood them. 

…Alternatively, it could cause their moodiness to grow, and then he would be trapped in the same room with them as they both whined at the same time.

Not physically trapped, of course, but Mairon would seriously consider shapeshifting his way out of that situation, consequences be damned. He’s certain trying to explain to the king how he ended up in a cell halfway across the ship would be an easier conversation than trying to deal with both Angmar and Khamul staring at him with dewy eyes and somber undertones at the same time. 

Even the thought makes him shudder. 

He much preferred the pleasant, light conversations or blunted, formal reports. Honestly, even reprimanding Angmar for something stupid-but harmless-was at least humorous. His actions so very rarely had real consequences aside from property damage, so there was little on the line when it came to his obvious disregard for manners. 

Perhaps the sudden switch from lack of consequences _to_ consequences was making him feel more on edge than normal as well. 

_”….What was that?” Mairon had asked softly. He had not turned to follow Melkor up the steps, nor had he continued walking back down as he had been doing when their paths crossed. He had crossed his arms over his chest and thrown his gaze towards the wall instead, absently counting the cracks in the stone brick. Angband had suffered greatly, at the hands of the Valar, and while the twisted underground caverns had remained largely unscathed, they had still suffered when the top was razed into the ground. “What were you thinking?”_

_“…Lieutenant.”_

_“You have scarcely returned and already plunged us into another war.” His fingers had twisted into the fabric covering his arms, had tangled themselves in it, scrunched the material up._

_“Lieutenant.”_

_“For what? Some… mere gemstones?” Some elvish trinkets? He had seen them glowing upon Melkor’s crown, had seen the blackened, burnt skin of his hands, and wanted to **scream** at him. He wanted to **break** them. He felt more furious than he had in his entire life, almost uncharacteristically so._

_It scared him._

_It all scared him._

_” **Enough** , lieutenant.” Melkor’s voice had been deathly quiet. It had sent shivers up his spine. “We have work to do.”_

_”…As you wish, my lord.” What had it been, in his own voice when he responded? Anger? Bitterness? It had been impossible to say, he had only felt numb. Numb and cold in a way that was foreign and maddening._

He cannot quite hide his grimace at the memory, and it pulls at the corners of his face even after the thought fades away.

“Do not tell me you are feeling sick as well.”Mairon open his eye and glances towards Khamul as he speaks. At some point during the silence Khamul has pulled himself up into a more proper sitting position rather than the slouch he has been using since they arrived, and is gently holding the pouch of herbs against his cheek so that he can speak without inhaling it. “I did not think you could _get_ sick.”

“I cannot,” Mairon responds blandly. Then, after a moment, continues, “How are you feeling?” He realizes his mistake the moment it is out of his mouth, but Khamul only sighs.

“Better, actually.” Mairon is very fortunate Khamul interpreted the words the way he had intended them. How are you feeling _physically?_ , he should have said. He had barely escaped the original conversation, he had no desire to plunge back into it. “I do think your little pet’s tricks have worked. You’ll have to thank him for me, my lord.”

“You can express your gratitude yourself,” Mairon responds immediately. Khamul had never explicitly been banned from speaking with the soldier, per-say. But his seasickness had ailed him enough that Mairon had figured he would not want to stand to walk closer to the cell door anyways.

Now that Khamul is feeling better, it will be easier to move forward with his plan. He already had managed to convince the soldier to steal for him, and had settled into a familiar habit with him. 

Time to break it.

“Oh, are you trusting me to speak with him?” There’s a quiet crunching noise as Khamul squeezes the bag of dried mint and lavender until the brittle leaves break, and then absently rubs the fabric against the side of his neck. Mairon can smell the sweet, floral aroma again, even without the bag ever opening. It is remarkable how potent it is, actually, given the plants are long dead.

_Yavanna would be mortified._

…

That thought makes him want to laugh.

“I trust you to handle this with the same tact that you handle paperwork,” Mairon says instead, and Khamul immediately groans, the playful smile dropping from his features, though his tone is still light and pleasant.

“Oh, so it is _work_ , then?” 

“Of course,” Mairon hums, because when has he ever asked them to do anything that was not work? “Be friendly with him. Perhaps you can charm your way into some additional cures for your woes.” 

“You make it sound so tedious, my lord,” Khamul says with a disappointed sigh. 

“Work tends to be tedious,” Mairon points out, and Khamul sighs yet again. Yes, work was tedious, but it was also required. At least Khamul is clearly still joking, given both his tone and his overly exaggerated gestures and movements. Angmar would be deathly serious, and then whine the entire time and _still_ end up insulting the soldier to his face in the first five minutes, even on his very best behavior.

“I should have remained in Mordor,” Khamul laments. "The paperwork would have been better than this."

Mairon is inclined to agree. He knows Khamul is still joking, but he would have still left both of them behind if he could have chosen to, for reasons including the sentimentality, Khamul’s various ailments, and the fact he is still not convinced that they will not just _get in his way_.

He has several conversations he needs to have with Angmar about several topics, especially those _damned swords_ he had mentioned. Trying to set them ablaze? What had he been talking about?

“Regardless, if you are truly feeling better, you are going to take over for me,” Mairon instructs quietly. “When the soldier comes down, you will greet him. Be pleasant and kind. Mind your words.” He glances towards the bowls still sitting by the door. Eventually, he is going to need to wake Angmar to ensure they are eaten soon. “When he offers you food, you will refuse one.”

“Ah, refusing food you do not eat anyway. How dastardly of you.” 

“I wish to see his response,” Mairon says idly. “You will, of course, need to pretend to be very worried about me. Perhaps shed a few tears.”

“I have changed my mind,” Khamul laments dramatically, sagging back against the wall then slipping down further, slowly inching down until he is laying upon the bench once more, most of his back pressed against it. The entire motion takes place over the course of several seconds, until he is flat upon the bench, groaning softly. “I still feel quite sick. I could not possibly talk to anyone else, lest I throw up.”

Mairon stares at him. The silence just might return if Khamul stopped pretending to whine in pain for a moment. If he is going to be dramatic about it, Mairon is going to give him something to actually complain about.

He jabs a fingernail into Khamul’s undefended side.

“Ow!” Khamul yelps, smacking his hand away and quickly shooting back up into a sitting position, hiding his ribcage behind his knees. His hands are crossed over his chest as far as the chains allow, which clatter loudly against each other as he strains against them to prevent another assault. “Fine, fine,” Khamul concedes readily, “I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful,” Mairon hums with a faint smile, “I am glad we could agree.”

“You did not have to do that _again_ ,” Khamul complains.

“I did not have to,” Mairon agrees, in a way that implies he did it because he wanted to. 

_Which he did_.

He does not give Khamul much more time to pout before he rises from the bench and goes to fetch a bowl of food for him. He would have instructed Khamul to do it himself, but he already has to wake Angmar to give him the other two servings and, frankly, he would be unsurprised if Angmar responded to being awoken by Khamul by kicking him in the gut. 

On accident, of course, but he does not want to subject Khamul’s stomach to yet another ailment. Between the fall and the seasickness, he’ll need some time to recover before he can handle that. 

“Wake up,” Mairon calls to Angmar after one bowl has found its way into the hands of Khamul, who is eating it slowly with one hand while the other clutches the bag of herbs close to his face. The other two are within his grasp, and he pushes one against Angmar's head to rouse him. “You need to eat this first, before you sleep properly.” 

Angmar makes a quiet, weary noise of confirmation, and Mairon places the bowls down near his head before walking back to sit beside Khamul. It takes Angmar a few moments to rise from sleep and grasp blindly for the food, but eventually he succeeds in fumbling one of the bowls close enough to him to eat.

He remains laying down as he does so, because of course he does.

“Tomorrow,” Mairon whispers quietly, more seriously than their previous conversation, turning his attention back to Khamul. “Before you return to sleep, you’ll speak with the soldier. I expect you can handle it.”

“Of course, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soldier: "Haha, I'm in danger!"


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wrist is doing a lot better, but I think I'm going to decrease updates to 2-3 times per week (Tentatively T/Th/S) to give me time to address some of the requests coming into my Tumblr. I got more than what I was expecting! 
> 
> You can read the first one here, which is from Khamul's perspective:  
> [It's All Angmar's Fault](https://minubell.tumblr.com/post/644107426687336448/since-you-mentioned-youre-taking-writing-prompts)

The nice smells do appear to have improved Khamul’s condition.

Over the course of the night he becomes less lethargic and more animated. He had stretched at first, slowly working kinks out of his joints that had days to form. The small pouch had never strayed far from his face as he had gradually returned to life. The dim, silvery light of the moon hanging overhead outside had provided enough light that Mairon could see the exact moment that Khamul had decided to try standing.

Well.

It had been less of a stand and more of a slow, sliding descent from the bench to the floor, that had been accompanied by an exaggerated whine until he had puddled on the floor dramatically, lying there like he had been stabbed, staring straight up at the ceiling with one hand grasping his ribs.

“Are you quite finished?” Mairon asks a few moments after Khamul had settled onto the floor and the whining noise had faded away into silence.

“I suppose,” Khamul responds, climbing to his feet and standing as if he had never laid upon the floor in the first place. There is a distinct, loud popping noise from his knees that both Mairon and Khamul ignore, and Khamul turns towards him, mouth open to say something when he stumbles and his mouth snaps shut again. 

He does not fall- _which is fortunate because it means Mairon does not have to decide if he needs to catch him so he is not injured further_ -but he does take a moment to get his bearings, and even when he does he sways awkwardly, shifting his weight between one foot and the other. “This is rather strange,” Khamul comments, a curious look upon his face, and Mairon realizes that this is the first time Khamul has actually stood since the ship left the port. “How do you not-“ He starts to add, but he is cut off as the ship gives a lurch and Khamul quickly plants a hand against the wall for support. The other holds the bag of herbs to his face, which has taken on a slightly paler color. 

“Do be careful,” Mairon hums, a moment later, “The rise and fall of the ship can make it difficult to stand without falling.”

“Ah, thank you for the warning, my lord,” Khamul responds dryly, as if this warning had not come almost immediately after he did exactly that. “Where would I be without you?”

“Back in Rhun, I suppose,” Mairon responds absently.

“Deceased,” Khamul proposes in turn after a moment of thought.

“Deceased in Rhun,” Mairon compromises. “Buried in some unmarked grave beneath the shifting sands. Vultures picking at your bones.”

“Ah, and now I have the wonderful honor of being buried in some pompous island far from my home,” Khamul laments. “No vultures to be found.”

“There is a storm brewing,” Mairon says, considering the warning the soldier had given him a few hours prior, “Perhaps we will not make it to shore. You could just drown instead, and save them the trouble of burying you.” He glances towards the porthole above, but the skies visible seem clear and the light is still visible streaming in through the glass. 

“That seems rather poetic,” Khamul muses, and the bag of herbs drops a slightly lower so it hovers below his face rather than being smashed against his cheek. “Hailing from a place where water is scarce, and then dying by it.”

“I suppose your poetic demise will need to wait, as I am not finished with you yet.”

“If we do capsize, I shall be sure to let the ocean know that it cannot drown me,” Khamul says humorously. The boat gives another lurch and he stumbles, though less severely than before when he was caught off guard. “Sooner rather than later, perhaps. Is it always this rough?”

“I would not know,” Mairon replies with a shrug. “This is my first time sailing, just as it is yours.”

“Truly? I would have guessed you had done it at least once before, my lord.”

“Why would I need to? I could simply fly wherever I wished to be.”

“Well, can you swim then?” Khamul asks, head tilted to one side, unable to hide his curiosity.

“As a fish,” Mairon responds blandly, and for some reason he cannot understand Khamul chuckles at that. “Can you?”

“Of course not,” Khamul huffs, and shifts when there is yet another lurch of the boat, shoving the bag against his face and breathing deeply for a few moments before he continues, more falteringly, “It sounds…cold. And wet.”

“Those are two traits that tend define water as a whole, yes,” Mairon points out blankly and Khamul snorts, before his attention drifts to the porthole and he pauses, lips turning down into a small frown. 

“It will be morning soon,” Khamul comments, sounding a touch disappointed. 

“So it seems,” Mairon says, looking towards the porthole as well, and sure enough the red strands of early dawn now lace across the sky, originating from behind the ship. The soldier will be visiting them soon.

Mairon sighs but shifts, laying down upon the bench for the first time to stare up at the ceiling before he lets his eyes close. The breaking of the routine feels strange, even if this was his intention from the start, and after a few moments he lets his arms fold across his chest rather than keeping them at his sides. 

“Is that your attempt at looking ill, my lord?”

Mairon opens his eyes again and turns his head towards Khamul, who looks distinctly amused from where he stands nearby, shifting his weight from side to side with each rock of the boat.

“You look more like a corpse lain out for display,” Khamul continues. “I know you do not _need_ to breathe, but it is more unnerving when you do not. You may scare him off, looking like that, my lord.”

“…Very well, what would you suggest? You are the expert in this field, I suppose.”

“Well,” Khamul drawls, very clearly ignoring the verbal jab. “Curl in on yourself more, to start,” Khamul instructs and Mairon complies, rolling onto his side and drawing his knees towards his chest. 

“Like this?”

“More,” Khamul says, then, after a moment, “That will do.” He is quiet for a few moments, and his hand drifts from the wall to scratch at his chin in thought. “You are still too stiff.”

“I do not think I can help that,” Mairon points out. “My mobility is limited by bones, just as yours is.”

“No, I mean your expression,” Khamul comments thoughtfully, head tilted to one side, “You are…stilted. Have you never been injured before? I always find it easier to reflect on a time when-”

_He had tasted his own blood in his mouth._

His stomach lurches as Khamul’s voice fades away into the swirl of a memory. 

_He had felt the sting of fangs digging into his throat._

There is a metallic taste upon his tongue, or at least the memory of a taste.

_He had heard the low, threatening growl of the hound as it had given a small shake of its head that had made his head swirl. There had been a quiet drip-drip-drip of his blood splashing upon the stones, and it had pooled and puddled beneath him, sticking to his clothing. It had been warm, but he had felt so cold._

His throat aches with a phantom pain.

_“I yield,” He had spat, choked, then-the moment the hound had released him-fled._

He is not aware of the unconscious movement of his hands towards his neck before his skin touches skin.

“That is better,” Khamul declares, startling him out of his thoughts. “Much better, actually. I am almost convinced myself."

“I am glad you approve,” Mairon responds dryly, but his voice sounds distant and hollow to his own ears. 

“I suppose I should ready myself as well,” Khamul murmurs and turns, placing a hand against the wall once more and using it as a guide towards the front of the cell. He manages to only stumble slightly from the motion of the boat, and eases himself into a sitting position. 

Mairon lets his eyes close.

He waits.

\-----

“Ah, Hello,” He hears Khamul call some time later, and Mairon opens his eyes just enough to look towards the front of the cell in time to see the soldier falter just beyond the bars.

“Oh,” The soldier murmurs, taking a halting, cautious step backwards, still balancing the trays in his hands. “Uh…hello?” His voice is clearly confused. 

“Ah, I can move away from the door if it makes you feel better,” Khamul says, not unkindly. “I only wished to inform you we will only need two bowls of food today. My lord has taken ill, you see.”

“Ill?” The soldier echoes, and Mairon can hear the worry in his voice. “Is it seasickness?”

“Perhaps,” Khamul says with a small shrug before his tone twists, adopting a false concern that he does not really have, “It is worrying, though,” He continues, lying as easily as he breathes. A hand drifts to his face and he rests it against his cheek, leaning into it slightly. When he speaks again, Mairon can hear the frown in his voice, and if it were not for the years he had known Khamul and the tell-tale tilt in his voice, he would almost be convinced by the sweet lies, despite the fact he had orchestrated this plot. “In all my years of service, I have never seen him sick. Not like this, anyway.”

Sometimes, he forgot how good at lying and deception Khamul could be, especially when Angmar was so clearly bad at it in comparison.

“Did you try the-“ The soldier starts, but is cut off by a shake of Khamul’s head.

“Unfortunately, my lord did not find any relief from the herbs you brought, though I did appreciate them,” Khamul responds softly. “I do not know if what ails my lord is truly seasickness, or something else. Perhaps he has fallen ill from the long march. Perhaps, he is unused to being confined for so long-“ A laughable idea, given he has spent the last several centuries all but locked within his own tower of his own accord, “-Or, perhaps his humbling at the hands of his majesty the king was so disheartening that he has lost his will to live.”

Mairon almost sputters at that one, and at his efforts to keep quiet causes him to make a quiet, coughing noise which has Khamul casting a worrying look back towards him. A look that quickly turns into a smug, coy grin the moment his face is turned away from the soldier, only for Khamul to quickly school himself and adopt a worried expression once more as he turns back towards the bars once more. 

“Please excuse me,” Khamul murmurs then stands, hurrying to the back of the cell to kneel before him.

“Mind yourself,” Mairon hisses quietly, and Khamul gives him a cheeky grin in response before casting his lips downwards into a frown.

“I am here, my lord,” Khamul whispers, deliberately loud enough so that the soldier could hear his false concern. He pretends to tend to him for a few moments and, while his hands are obscured by his body, Khamul carefully, deliberately pinches the back of his own wrist with his nails just hard enough that his eyes tear up a little from the self-inflicted pain. There is a small reddened mark there from where his nails bit into his own skin, but it is easily obscured as his sleeve falls back into place.

Oh, how _devious_. 

Khamul stands and turns, wiping at his eyes with a sleeve before returning to the front of the cell. Now that Khamul’s body is not obscuring his vision, Mairon can see that the soldier looks _devastated_. 

“My apologies,” Khamul states quietly to the soldier. “I will not waste any more of your time, I am sure you are busy.”

“I….yes, of course,” The soldier sputters, and there is a quiet clink as he pushes the food through the small door. Only two bowls, as Khamul requested. The solider hovers for a moment before he collects the dirty dishes, casts one more look into the cell, then almost reluctantly turns and heads towards the stairs.

“You have my thanks,” Khamul calls after him, as if striking the final blow with the words Mairon himself had used so often. Khamul stays there, a hand resting upon the bars to steady himself as the ship rocks for a moment before he picks up one of the bowls and returns to the back of the cell to sit beside where Mairon lays.

“An adequate job, I suppose,” Mairon murmurs after a moment. He’ll have to remain laying here for a while in event the soldier suddenly returns so he is not caught in the act. Pretending to be ill was tedious.

“That is overwhelming praise from you, my lord,” Khamul points out with a smirk as he takes a small bite of food, then brings the bag of herbs close to his face again. Not completely improved from his seasickness, then. “Well then. Now what?”

“Now?” Mairon responds, eyes fixed towards the bars and the hall beyond. “Now, we wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khamul: *Jokes about dying via drowning*  
> Eru: "Haha... what if you did drown though....aha ha jk, jk...unless...?"


End file.
